


A Different Kind of Hell

by OffYourBird



Series: The Jumpverse [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dramedy, F/M, Historical, Romance, Season/Series 05, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 89,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/pseuds/OffYourBird
Summary: Jumping through Glory's tower portal, Buffy and Spike find themselves in a hell dimension they never expected. One that looks suspiciously like 1880's London. Will they find a way back home? Will the truth behind William the Bloody at last make itself known? Will Buffy ever stop butchering the Queen's English? Join them and find out. Starts off at the end of "The Gift."





	1. Down the Rabbit Hellhole

The portal was open. That was really all there was to it. Lightning arced through the sky in massive, hellish bolts and big black shadowy  _somethings_  had taken up overhead. The tower was shaking, vibrating, about to come apart. Dawnie was in her arms, frantically struggling as she tried for the edge of the tower.

“Buffy! You have to let me go. Blood starts it, and until the blood stops flowing, it’ll never stop.”

If there was ever a real-world moment that personified anguish, this was it. All with the anguish. Cue the heartbreak. Cue the dread. Show for one.

“You know you have to let me. It has to be the blood.”

And all at once, everything clicked.  _Cause it’s always got to be the blood. It’s Summers blood. Just like mine. Death is your gift._

Dawn saw her intention before she did. “Buffy, no!”

“Dawnie, I have to.”

And somehow, somehow she made her sister listen, and stroked her cheek, and kissed her goodbye. And then she was sprinting, sprinting toward the end. It was gold medal time. One way ticket to Dead Land.

And then, she wasn’t. A shocked gasp escaped her as she fell into a heap at the absolute edge of the tower. And she fell on top of… Spike?

He grinned at her through bruised eyes, a swelling cheek. “Now where do you think you’re going, Slayer?”

“Spike.” Her voice was suddenly calm, suddenly tender. This was it, after all. Tenderness could be spent in spades. She’d never need it again. “You have to let me go. I have to close the portal.”

“Gotta keep the Niblet safe. I know, I promised.” His words were stern, heated.

She found herself nodding her head violently. “I know. That’s why you have to let me go.”

He rolled the two of them so she was on the bottom, and then climbed to his feet. A sudden shuddering of the tower almost knocked him off them again. “No, Slayer, that’s why I’m coming with you.”

“What!”

He pulled her to her feet and held her hands in a death-grip. “Keep Dawn safe. How safe’s she gonna be without a mum or big sis?”

“Spike! This portal is likely going to hell.”

He stared at her pugnaciously, chin jutted out. “Yeah? And who of us is made for hell? You’re gonna survive it and get back, if I have anything to say in the matter.”

Another tremble, and they both almost tumbled off the tower.

“Right.” Spike let go of one hand, the one farthest from him, and flashed a fangy smile. “Time to go, Slayer.”

Buffy just looked at him. But there really was no more time. She nodded once, briefly. And then they were sprinting together, fast as the lightning in the sky, hands mashed bruisingly together. And then they were flying and falling. And, oh god, when did the sky burn? And then everything went black.

 

***

 

“C’mon, Slayer. C’mon. Come round now.”

Buffy groaned. “Grrngh.”

“That's right. Come back now.”

Buffy frowned. Her head felt like it was about to come unglued and pain tendrilled through every iota. She whimpered.

“S’okay, Slayer.” Something cool and dry covered her forehead and she nuzzled into it without thought.

"Did we... did we fall here?" she managed in a croaky whisper. The roughness of her voice convinced her to wrench open her eyes, but everything was blurred and watery and mostly dark. Her nose was working, though, and she wrinkled it in distaste against the ripeness of sewage. She couldn't even imagine was it was like for Spike. It was then that she realized the cool touch on her brow was Spike’s hand, and she drew back with all the sharpness that a pounding head would allow.

"In the street, as a matter of fact. But couldn't stay there. Didn't look the part and all."

Finally her eyes cleared enough to be past the eighty-year-old-with-cataracts stage, and she blinked blearily around. They were in an alley, for sure. A low moon hung over some crumbling brick corner. And Spike was hovering next to her with...

" _What_  are you wearing?"

The duster was gone. God, the jeans and tee were gone, too. In their place was something that looked... well, not Giles-ish exactly, but frighteningly close. He was wearing dark gray breeches –  _Was that even a real word?_  – and some kind of dark blue coat that swung down to his knees. There was a cream shirt underneath it, tied at the top with a dark tie. And shockingly, it looked  _good_. Whoa.

"People just leave out their kits here. No dryers, yeah? Nicked it down the way." He handed her a large swath of cloth. "Got you some, too."

Buffy stared at the fabric and looked around again. She was propped up on some splintery crates, thankfully away from whatever was making the freaksome smells. She wrinkled her nose. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Trust me. Won't go over well here."

"Hell has a dress code?"

"Summat like that."

She groaned as she unfolded the cloth. It was a dress. A lot of dress. Some kind of pale green monstrosity that would cover her from wrists to ankles. "Oh god, this  _is_  hell. I'm going to be Sister Mary Celibate in this."

He grinned at her. "It's not all bad. It'll fit nicely around your pretty chest, at least."

"Hey!" Buffy glared him, then tugged the cloth-y mess over her head. Spike helped her pull it down as she stood. She groaned. All of her muscles felt like jelly, and not in the good way. At least the pounding in her head was starting to dull. Barely.

"Lose the sweater, Slayer."

She gave him a dirty look, but made with the gymnastics act and pulled it out at last. It was a middle school locker room all over again. Like  _anyone_  needed to repeat  _that_.

He plucked the sweater from her hands and tucked it into some case he had sitting at the edge of the crates. She eyed it questioningly.

"Nicked that, too," he confirmed unrepentantly. "Gotta keep our real clothes somewhere."

Buffy sighed. "Is there really any point in reminding you that stealing is bad and wrong?"

"None at all." He smirked at her.

She sighed again, and peered around. Sounds were echoing everywhere as people flitted by, all dressed like something out of  _Oliver Twist_. Horses and carriages rumbled by. Weirdness to the nth degree. "Geez, this hell dimension is a bit behind the times."

Spike shrugged, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

"Do you know where we are?"

"Have my suspicions."

When he didn't elaborate, she glared at him, to no effect. He pointedly looked away, out into the street beyond their little alleyway. “Can’t stay here. Got a few hours before sunrise, better find a place to hole up.”

Buffy just nodded and followed him to the edge of the alley. He stopped abruptly, then plunged into the night, pausing only to grab her arm by the elbow. She made to tug it back but he stopped her with a hissing growl.

“Play along, Slayer. For now.”

She subsided with a grumbled  _whatever_ , and let him lead her down the streets. It was only after a few minutes of walking along – almost half-running, really – that she realized Spike knew where he was going. He was looking determinedly straight ahead, his mouth pressed in a straight line.

“Uh, Spike?”

“Not now.” He didn’t even look at her.

She yanked at him then, glaring, pulling them to a halt. “Yes, now.”

He sighed. “Just hold your horses for a tick.” He squeezed her elbow reassuringly. “Please.”

Against her better instincts, Buffy let him draw them back into motion. From her vantage, they didn’t seem to be going anywhere sensible. They had started in some kind of commercial district, shops flowing to the edges of rough cobblestones, proclaiming to sell everything from books, to boars, to boots. Most of the shops were all closed up – it was the middle of the night, after all – but there were bars aplenty open. They passed no shortage of drunken men and women on the streets, carousing and laughing. Buffy frowned.

“Spike! They’re speaking English.”

He glanced back at her. “As you’re sometimes wont to do, yeah.” She almost missed the edges of his smirk.

She slapped his shoulder. “Very funny.”

“Thought so, m'self.”

“But Spike. English. We’re somewhere that speaks English.”

“Can hear that.”

She rolled her eyes and stopped trying. Stupid difficult vampire.

He continued leading her through narrow streets without so much as a quick hesitation, building her suspicions. They eventually emerged somewhere that looked incredibly residential. A long series of townhouses sprawled next to each other, connected at the hips by brick. He pulled short in front of one and glanced up at the moon. "Should be about right.”

“About right?”

“About the right time,” he amended, staring fiercely at one of the houses. Buffy didn’t get the appeal. It looked like most of the others: brick, ancient, brick, did she mention brick? There were two paned windows at the front by a dark painted door, and she could see the softness of candlelight through the curtains. Then the door start to open and a voice called something back to those inside.

Buffy glanced over at Spike curiously and blinked. He looked pale. Paler than usual, that was. Could vamps even go pale, really? Blushing was out of the question, for sure. Buffy thought about making a snide remark then stopped. Wait, something made Spike go pale-r? That could not be of the good.

And then Spike stepped out from the house, shutting the door with a careful firmness, and started walking to the street. Or… not Spike, but some weird Victorian doppleganger of him. He was wearing little spectacles, and had a mop of curly light brown hair. But it was the stride that convinced her that it couldn’t possibly be Spike. Spike swaggered. He stalked. He strutted. This man trotted along, looking for all the world like he was begging for no one to notice him.

“Bloody fucking hell,” growled the vampire next to her.

The man that wasn’t Spike turned around the corner away from them, out of sight, and Buffy snapped her eyes away. “Uh, Spike? Is that…”

“William? Yeah, pet.” And then he kicked at the metal lamppost near them with a low roar. “Bleeding fucking hell!”

“Uh… Spike?”

The vampire continued to ignore her, ranting lowly, something about “tear that Hell Bitch into pieces and fuck her cunt into bloody next Tuesday.”

“Spike!”

He stopped and slowly looked up at her. The haunted shadow of his eyes snapped her mouth shut. Oh, god. This had to be bad. Ubersuckage. Mas Bad. She took a deep breath.

“Ok, you are giving me some serious wiggins. What is going on?”

To her infinite continued wiggins, Spike just stared at her for a long moment before launching into something that sounded dangerously like poetry. His eyes burned into hers and his voice was rough and low. "My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to see if immortality unveil a third event to me, so huge, so hopeless to conceive, as these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.”

“What the what with the huh?”

Spike swallowed heavily, shaking his head. “We’re in hell, pet.”

“Oh.” She clasped her hands tightly front of her and looked around at the dark street. There were barely any carriages on this side of town, and it was nearly quiet. “Know which one?”

He followed her gaze with a sigh. “Mine.”

Buffy snapped her eyes to his. “What?”

“We’re in London, Buffy. In 1880.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredibly talented and entirely wonderful EF community member Twinkles made a gorgeous fancomic of this chapter, which you can find here: http://nootloot.co.nz/index.php/spuffy/ 
> 
> Thank you again, Twinkles!


	2. Which Is So Not of the Good

Buffy stared at him. "What."

Spike winced. "London. 1880."

Ohhhh no. "That was  _so_  not in the brochure. We're back in  _time_?"

"Seems like. Or else it's some kind of parallel dimension." Spike glanced around, muttered, "Sure looks like the bloody place, though."

"Like the world without shrimp?"

"What?"

"Never mind," she huffed, desperately wanting to punch something. "Are you freaking kidding me? I mean, I was all ready for dead. Checked out. Sacrificial martyr right here. World saveage. Done. Was ready for a hell even. Spend what's left of my expiration date punching baddies. Give some corner of hell springy cleaning. But  _nooooo_ , can't ever be simple for the Slayer." Buffy glared at the sky, hands on hips. "This is  _so_  not funny! If any of you bastards have actual asses to kick, they're getting kicked!"

Spike stifled a laugh beside her, then hurriedly drew her into the shadows, to Buffy's protesting squeal. "Hey!"

"Sorry, pet. We were starting to attract a bit of attention. Lots of windows in these parts." He grinned at her. "Most of 'em like never heard a lady have a good shout. Leastways, not like that, from some American chit."

She crossed her arms against her breasts with a glare. Distantly, she realized the dress  _did_  make her breasts look great. Even though the cotton monstrosity covered everything up to her neck, it still hugged her curves nicely, seams running in all the right places. Grudgingly, she admitted that Spike had done an uncommonly good job at finding her a dress.  _Stealing_ her a dress, she corrected herself hastily.

"Fine," she snapped. "We're in London in 1880. How do we get out of here?"

"Beats me, luv."

At the wearied tone in his voice, Buffy dropped her arms, loosening her combative stance. She stood quietly for a moment, and then noticed that Spike's whole body had tensed and that he was drumming his fingers at almost hyperspeed against his thigh. Internally, she groaned. Xander was invading her mental vocab, despite every precaution.

"Spike."

"Yeah?"

"What's wrong."

He stilled his fingers and gave her a look. "Besides the bloody obvious?"

"Yeah. Besides that."

He drew in a sharp breath. "What do you remember of our fall?"

"Um. Not much."

" _Think_."

Buffy squinted in concentration. "Uh. Fire. I remember fire. And burning." Her eyes widened. "Did we get struck by lightning?"

Spike released a breath explosively. "Seeing as that's where it was coming from, reckon so."

"Ok. So struck by lightning. Check. What's the big?"

The vampire stared at her for a long moment, then dropped his gaze to his boots, mumbling, "Don't think it's working anymore."

"Huh?"

Spike raised his head and said clearly, slowly, "The chip. Don't think it's working anymore." He ran a tense hand through his hair, tossing loosened curls around. "When we landed in the street, almost got done in by a carriage. Had to shove off a bloke or two. Then just now, pulled you. Shoulda fired. Didn't."

Buffy gaped at him. This was it. The end of her rope. Hell portal. Fine. Not dying. Fine. Freaking  _Pride and Prejudice_  gone wrong. She'd deal. But really, now this?

She let out a small growl, and clenched her fists, staring at the sky. The stars were invisible beneath what she suspected was a giant smoggy haze.

"Slayer?" Spike's voice was hesitant, uncertain. "You gonna stake me now?"

Her eyes squeezed shut.  _I so can't even deal with this right now_. Finally, she took another deep breath. God, how many was that today? Just call her yoga Buffy. She opened her eyes and looked him squarely in the face. Buffy was checked out, this was all Slayer. From the look on his face, he knew it, too. She saw him start to back up a step. "Spike. Are you going to start eating people again?"

He looked horrified. "What? 'Course not!"

The harshness of his response rocked her a bit. “Really?” She blinked.

He glared at her. “Vote of confidence much appreciated. Thanks ever so.”

She shrugged. “Vampire.”

Spike seemed to struggle with himself, expression flitting between indignant and furious. “Vampire who just helped you save the bleeding  _world_. For the sodding  _second_  time, you’ll recall,” he said, disdain dripping from every syllable. And then he looked away and said, so softly she could barely hear, “Vampire who loves you.”

Buffy averted her eyes, finding herself very interested in her shoes. Ugh, was that a scuff mark? Stupid pointy tower. Stupid bitchy hell god. In the end, it was easier to stay quiet, even though she knew his eyes – those burning blue eyes – were boring holes in the back of her neck.

“Right,” he said at last, gruffly. “Better find a place to get some kip.” He picked up the small case with their clothes – thank god, because she’d forgotten all about it – and took her by the elbow again. They were silent for some time, and then he said abruptly, “If some tosser asks, you’re my cousin, from America.”

Buffy rolled her eyes.

“What? It's not proper elsewise. Gotta be a relative.” He smirked at her suddenly, tongue curling behind his teeth. “Unless you wanna be my wife. Could have some fun with that.”

She stared narrowly at him, staunchly ignoring the last part of his words, then grinned. He leaned away with a suspicious look, keeping half an eye on the street as they walked.

“Ok, grandpa. Relative it is.”

He sputtered at her. “Oi!”

“Many times removed,” she added sweetly.

Spike glared at her. “Cousins,” he said firmly. He hesitated. “Just… just  _try_ ,” he winced as he said it, “to not butcher the mother tongue while we’re here, yeah?”

“Be non butchery girl. Check.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then turned away. She heard a muttered, “Bloody hell.”

Buffy frowned. God, what did she know of Victorian England? Not much, although she’d watched  _A Christmas Carol_  every year with Mom and Dawn. “Oo! I can pretend to be British, too! How d’you like that, guv’nr?”

Spike looked at her again, this time with horrified dismay. “Slayer,” he said, with gritted teeth, “that was a travesty to humanity. Never do it again _. Please_.”

The level of pain in his voice made her flush. “It wasn’t  _that_  bad,” she protested.

“Yes, it really, really was.”

She pouted, and Spike's expression softened to a mild smile. “Americans are taken as right charming, if outlandish, anyhow,” he said. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get shirty, yeah?”

“ _Shirty?_ ”

He smirked at her, a patronizing curl to his lips. “Like that.”

Buffy suppressed the urge to clock him, concluding  _oh so much with the unfortunate being_ , that was likely not what Victorian ladies did. She settled for subtly pinching his side, and was satisfied with his startled yelp.

They were nearing the commercial district again when an incredulous voice cried out, "William?!"

Spike froze, muttering a sharp, "Bollocks," then kept walking, hand clamped around her elbow.

"I say, William Pratt!"

Buffy blinked, glancing over her shoulder at the tallish man yelling at them. "Pratt?"

"Never you mind," he growled, not halting. It was only when she heard footsteps hurrying after them that Spike stopped and turned.

"William?"

The man half-chasing them looked to be roughly in his early 30's, with a distinctly Giles-esque get up, all tweed pants, dark overcoat, and some ridiculous kind of tall hat that seemed to be the norm. His face was nice enough, although crushed in astonished confusion.

"Not sure who you're looking for, mate, but your nancy boy William isn't here," Spike nearly growled, sounding even rougher and lower than usual.

The man just stared. "Oh! I say!" He exclaimed finally. "My apologies, my good man. You look uncommonly like a friend of mine." With a last astonished look and a tip of his hat, he wandered off.

Buffy watched until he was out of sight. "Pratt? Your last name was  _Pratt_?"

Spike took her elbow again and moved them along at breakneck walking speed, his jaw clenched. "Leave it alone, Buffy."

The use of her name made the next teasing remark die on her lips. Tentatively, she glanced over at the vampire, and noticed the tightness around his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes that signaled anger, or fear, or pain.

"Who was that?" she asked instead.

Spike glanced over at her, his brow softening with gratitude at her change in tone. "Charles Delancey." He sighed. "The only bloke that I could ever really call a friend." Something like a smile flickered on his lips. "Bit more like me now, Charles was." He blinked. "Or  _is_ , I suppose, for the moment. Anyhow, more like Spike than William, yeah?"

"Really?" Buffy knew her tone was incredulous. "He looked like a Giles clone."

Spike raised a scarred brow her way. "Would Watcher be wandering about by the pubs this time of night?"

"I suppose not," she allowed. She thought of the band candy incident and paused. "At least, not when he was actually Giles instead of Hormones on Parade Ripper. Giles is the get-sloshed-in-the-living-room-while-listening-to-crappy-old-music type.”

Spike rolled his eyes at her. “Your Watcher actually has brilliant taste in music.” He frowned. “Don’t be telling him I said that, though.” He grinned at her then. “You’re the chit that thought that bloody awful Bette bird’s ballad was wedding worthy.”

“Must’ve been the spell,” Buffy said primly, trying to stop the blush climbing up her throat.

“Yeah, sure, pet.”

She meant to make some kind of snappy comeback. Maybe something about how his version of good music somehow included guys wearing makeup, but then found she didn’t have the energy. God, what time was it even? Dirty lamplight coated the city in shades of dim light and buildings stretched farther than she could see, blanking out any attempt to find the edges of sunrise. There weren’t even any trees to tell her the time of year, but judging by the fact that it was warm enough without a coat, she guessed it had to be somewhere near summer.

Spike looked over when she didn’t argue and adjusted his grip on her arm, taking some of her weight. “Be there soon.”

Buffy nodded wearily, with a faint smile. It was proof of the universe’s perverse sense of humor that the one being who could practically read her mind was a soulless vampire. But that was Spike, she thought dryly. Always being contrary in any way he could. Up to and including loving her. Buffy shied from the notion as she thought it, but it wouldn’t go away. It was easy to think his feelings were nothing more than obsession – the part of her that was the Slayer  _needed_  to think it. But really, would mere obsession drive someone to jump into hell to make sure she made it back to family and friends? It was, she admitted quietly, something that merited thought. But later, when she didn’t feel like sleeping on the cobblestones. And, god, why couldn’t they have fallen through the portal to somewhen with indoor plumbing?

It was with that cheery realization that Spike nudged her gently. “We’re here.”

Here turned out to be a dingy brownstone building with a red painted door and a sign that read  _Lowell Inn_  in curling letters. Spike pulled the bell by the door and waited. After an eternity, an older man with sagging jowls opened it and peered at them suspiciously. A dirty apron covered a plain linen shirt and pants.

“How do,” he said warily. “Bit early for a room.”

To Buffy’s amazement, Spike tilted his head in greeting, as if dipping his non-existent hat. “Mornin’,” he returned politely. “Don’t fancy the hour myself, but we’ve been by horse most the night. About dead on our feet. Name’s William Summers. This here is my cousin, Elizabeth.”

Buffy just blinked as he usurped her last name, and realized he was staring at her intently. God, what did he want now? Then she saw the innkeeper staring, as well. Right. Manners. She curtsied, kind of – those ballerina lessons at five years old were finally paying off – and bobbed her head.

“How do you do,” she murmured softly.

Beside her, Spike relaxed visibly, and she realized he’d been wound tighter than a bowstring. It annoyed her immensely. Did he think she was complete spaz girl?  _I’ve seen_ Little Women _, buster_ , she wanted to point out, smugly.

“Ma’am,” the innkeeper returned, with a head tilt like Spike’s. He peered out into the street around them. “Well, then. Don’t want you out here by yerselves. Ruffians about, no mistake. Think I have a room.”

“Not ruffians,” Buffy said dryly.

Spike jabbed her with an elbow. “We’re much obliged.”

They entered the brownstone inn without fanfare then and shuffled into a large living room, a creaking staircase leading up the back.

The innkeeper nodded at them briefly. “Name’s Richard Lowell. Lodging is three shillings a night. Breakfast at seven sharp. No latecomers.” He eyed them narrowly as he said it. Not with the lateness. Check.

Spike handed over a small pile of coins, nodding agreement. “Two nights for now, mate, if you please.”

“That’ll suit.”

Mr. Lowell handed Spike a key. It looked like one of those spidery prop keys from a cheesy old movie. “Room’s second on the left up the way. Common bath on the right.”

“Ta.”

And then they were up the stairs, Spike using the prop key to push open the door. Two beds, at least. Thank God. The last thing she needed tonight was cold vampire feet against hers. And wasn’t that the weirdest thought she’d had all day? But any further contemplation about that bizarre scene would wait. She had no more than draped herself across the bed, nearly missing the pillow, before she fell into a deep, fatigued sleep.


	3. When Deathwishes Come A-Calling

When Buffy startled herself awake again, it was night (still? again?), or so she assumed. There were thick curtains drawn over the sole window in the room, blocking out any telltale signs of the likely non-existent light.

“Oh, good. Curtains.”

Spike was seated at the small desk catty-corner to her – really, what kind of word was catty-corner? What did cats have to do with anything? – silently scribbling on some thick sheet of paper.

“Didn’t exactly fancy waking up as a big pile of dust, Slayer. So, yeah, curtains,” he told her dryly, without looking up.

She sat up and scrunched her nose. “Ugh. My mouth is full on badness.” She moved her limbs stiffly. They seemed in much better shape than the night before, but the remaining aches from her pile of hell god bruises had yet to fade. Still, not bad for making with the whole lightning girl and falling act.

Spike chuckled, still not looking up from the paper. “Washroom down the hall, pet.”

Interest piqued, Buffy slid to a stand and brushed down her dress. It was hopelessly wrinkled. She realized with a groan that she had never even taken off her shoes. “Watcha doing?”

“Racking my brain to recollect what William was on about around this time.” She saw his brow furrow. “It's possible we’re not in  _my_  past at all, of course, but like close enough.”

“But why?”

Spike favored her with an irritated glance. “Because it’s been a sodding century. Don’t exactly recall it like that, and last thing we need is to have a run-in with my other half on the street.”

“Oh. Right.” She stood awkwardly for a moment, before her body reminded her that it had been way too long since she’d been to the bathroom. She slipped out into the hall and down to the washroom.

To Buffy's immense relief, there was a real honest-to-god toilet, with a heavy wooden lid. The tank was hoisted bizarrely high, almost to the ceiling, with a long pull cord to flush. But flush it did. There wasn’t a real sink, but truly, that was pretty much a negative two on the inconvenience scale these days.

She splashed her hands in the provided wash basin and drew a conveniently provided cloth down her face. A quick realization that she likely not face numero uno for this cloth gave her large pause, but then she just decided not to think about it. Queen of the river in Africa, no doubt about it. Sanity was a better option.

A large plate of mirror hung on the wall near the basin, and Buffy squealed in outrage as she saw herself.  _Oh god, someone has seen me like this._ Spike _has seen me like this!_ She didn’t care to delve too deeply into why Spike had his own category. With angry fingers, she tore at the knots in her hair and did her absolute best to smooth it to something resembling okay, and then peered at the result. The women she had seen last night had all done their hair up, in one way or another. Down didn’t seem to be the norm. Unfortunately, without any kind of hair supplies, there wasn’t much she could do. Finally, she settled on twisting back her hair from her face and tying it with itself behind her head in a simple half-up fashion.  _Not my finest work, but hey, not bad for being all suddenly-Miss Victorian London_ , she thought.

Feeling marginally more human, she rejoined Spike in the room. Shutting the door, she crossed her arms over her chest and gave the back of Spike’s head a cool look.

“Can feel you glaring from here, Slayer. What did I do now?”

“Where’d the money come from, Spike? I saw you pay the innkeeper guy last night.”

Spike turned slowly in his seat to face her, scarred brow risen. “That you did,” he agreed casually. “A touch difficult to buy a room without it.”

“Where.”

“Nicked it from one of the blokes on the street, when we oh so brilliantly got tossed in the middle of the bleeding nineteenth century.”

“You couldn’t have even known we’d need money by then!”

He pursed his lips. “Always need money, Slayer.”

Buffy sighed, but let it rest, expecting Spike to turn back around and ignore her again. Instead, he drummed his fingers on his thighs in what was becoming a seriously annoying tell.

“What, Spike.”

He met her eyes slowly. “Need blood. Been a bit, yeah? And falling from the Hell Bitch’s tower didn’t exactly do yours truly any favors.”

Buffy blinked, and sudden guilt raced through her. In all the crush from time travel – really, why did anything surprise her anymore? – she’d forgotten about Spike’s fall. Doc had sent him careening off the edge in a way that made her sure he wouldn’t be getting back up for a while, never mind tackling her on the tower before she could make her grand exit. She searched his face, seeing the shadows of swelling that still rested there, the slight tightness around his eyes.

“Why didn’t you find a butcher while I was sleeping?”  _Afraid you might haul off and bite someone?_

Spike eyed her narrowly, as if he knew exactly what her unspoken thought was. Stupid mind-reading vampire. “Well, discounting the fiery ball of death that’s just as deadly here as it was there, just couldn’t. Not done in this time, leaving a respectable lady by her lonesome.”

“You think I’m respectable?”

Spike rolled his eyes at her. “That what you got out of that, Slayer? It's a miracle you’ve had your blessed Scoobies all this time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, pet, that you’re not made for the book end of things.”

Fury welled in her and she stalked over to the desk to poke him square in the chest. “Did you just call me  _stupid_?” She was furious, and – oh, boy – did it feel good. The last few months had been filled to the brim with crazy worry, crazy certainty that death was knocking on the door at any and all moments. She’d had no fury left, by the end. Just some kind of solid numbness, solid determination, that made everything else pale in comparison. A deathwish, Spike would insist. Not that she could really argue the point these days, seeing as she’d thrown herself through the portal, expecting to die. Now though, in this world that wasn’t hers, a world that was  _all_ with the being majorly and totally not hers, she found that the numbness had receded, shuffled back into its proper place at the edges of her self. In short, she felt alive.

So imagine her surprise when her favorite fighting partner plucked her hand away from his chest and kissed it, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. She jerked away with a sharp gasp.

“Not stupid, Slayer,” Spike said, amused. “You’re clever as a wildcat. Just not the bookish kind, yeah?”

Buffy glared at him. “Oh, and you are? Mister I’m-going-to-build-some-crazy-evil-judge-and-not-think-about-world-endage?”

“Not my finest moment.”

“You think?” She turned accusing eyes on the pen and paper on the desk. “Did you steal that, too?”

“No, miss high and mighty, I didn’t. Asked the innkeep all right and proper.” He flashed a quick grin her way. “He’s right interested in having a chat with you. Suspected you were American, but wasn’t sure, what with the unusually quiet sound of your voice. Didn’t clue him in that it was like never to happen again.”

Buffy recoiled. “What does he want me with me?”

Spike gave her a bemused look and then his smirk faded in gentle understanding. “It's not like that here, Buffy. Leastways, not with men of any character. He’ll just want to ask about the Colonies and such.”

“The Colonies?”

“That’s America, luv.”

“But… I don’t know anything about ‘the Colonies’ right now.”

Spike nodded sharply and then gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully, tapping his foot. He had abandoned the blue jacket at some point, and his frame was rippling underneath the thin cream shirt.  _Rippling? Oh, no,_ so _not going there_ , she told herself heatedly.

“Keep it simple,” Spike said finally, unaware of her internal monologue. “Is that chap Hayes that’s your president right now. Right solid bloke, even if a complete tee-totaller.”

“Huh?”

“Not much into drinking.” He frowned, still looking at the ceiling. “Otherwise, cities are much the same as here. You bunch were right in the middle of slaughtering your fair share of Indians–”

“Well, that sounds familiar, at least,” Buffy cut in dryly.

Spike grinned at her. “No bears, though.” He looked back at the ceiling. “Is post Civil War for you lot. South is getting better, but still not pretty if you’re colors, yeah?” His eyes seemed to glow as he searched through an internal compendium.  _Hah!_  Buffy thought.  _Take that, SAT._  “The West is where it’s fun. You know all those Westerns, with the cowboys and the bleeding damsels and pub fights?” She nodded. “This is right about then.”

“Ooh!”

He gave her a look before she could continue. “No, you can’t be from the West.”

She pouted, jutting out her lower lip, and watched Spike pause, hesitate. “Spoilsport.” Then, “but I’ve never lived anywhere except California.”

“It's not your California right now, anyway, Buffy,” he said with a sigh. “Gold rush there now. All miners, and Chinese blokes, and wastrels. No respectable lady lives there.” He winked at her. “Not one whose family was once proper English, anyway.”

Buffy drew in a sharp breath and resumed poking him in his smug chest, then removed it before he could grab her again. “ _About that_. What was with the stealing of my name!”

The vampire tilted his head at her in that oh so annoying way. “Didn’t figure you’d want to learn a new last name, luv.”

“Yeah, well…” she muttered, grousing. What was with him! He was supposed to be riling her up, egging her on, earning himself a fair punch to the nose. Not this calm, amused version of himself. And geez, had his accent gotten stronger since they’d leapt? Her eyes narrowed as she looked for something – anything – to throw at him. “What was William doing out in the middle of the night, Spike?”

He pulled back, nonplussed at her change in conversation, and threw up his hands. “Bloody hell, Slayer! Lay off! Wasn’t prepared for the bleeding inquisition tonight.”

“Yeah, well... you should’ve been!” And then she stomped off the few steps to her bed, then – deciding it wasn’t far enough away – stomped over to the window.

Behind her, Spike chuckled lowly, and she stiffened, peeking through the curtains. Yep, definitely night.

They lasted in silence for all of three minutes. Just when Buffy had worked herself up enough to whirl around and make a semi-conciliatory remark, Spike beat her to it.

“Anyhow, still need to eat. And I’m guessing you’re not offering, so...”

She turned with a glare. “First off, ewww. Second, gross. Third, I will stake you if you ever try anything like that.”

He gave her an exasperated look and then marched up to her, invading her personal space with his lean frame. She edged away from him, against the windowsill, in sudden discomfort, but otherwise refused to budge.

“For Chrissakes, Buffy, just pop me one already.”

“What?” She personally thought her voice was the picture of innocence. Innocent Buffy, that was her.

Spike wasn’t buying it. “As much as I love arguing with your pretty self, it's not exactly the best use of our time right now, yeah?” He searched her face with those ridiculous blue eyes. Really, eyes like that should not be allowed. Finally, at her gesture of defeat, his eyes crinkled up in a smile. “That’s my girl.”

She glared. “I’m not 'your girl', Spike.”

It was his turn to stiffen. The tenderness in his gaze dissipated and he immediately strode off to the other side of the room without a word. The sudden exit made her feel bereft, but she shrugged it off with a clenched fist. She watched him stand silently by the desk for a long moment, not moving. At last, she sighed.

“I’m ready, if you want to go get blood now.” Buffy paused, and then said almost nicely, “You know if you hurt anyone, I  _will_ stake you.”

“Yeah, yeah, Slayer. I know the tune.” He still didn’t turn around.

She shifted uncomfortably and picked a loose string on her dress. “Listen. Spike. Thank you.”

That made him turn. He looked at her warily. “What for?”

She thought about refusing to say anything else – really, wasn’t ‘thank you’ self-explanatory? – but the sudden memory of Spike, beaten to pulp, sitting in his crypt with fierce determination echoing in every word –  _I couldn't live, her being in that much pain. Let Glory kill me first_  – flooded her brain.

“Thank you,” Buffy said again. “You jumped into a hell god portal with me. And I know  _you_  don’t have a deathwish.”

“Yeah, and we’re gonna have to have another chat about that, one of these days,” he growled.

She nodded gently, eyes still on her dress. Really, the color wasn’t so bad. Kind of a pale minty green. “Yeah, well. You didn’t have to do it. And since then… you’ve been making it okay, you know?”

When Spike didn’t reply, she lifted her eyes and saw the wonder lighting his face.

“I haven’t stopped to think about… about what we left behind. Not sure that I can yet. Sort of hoping this is all some seriously bizarro dream. But… if it’s not, I’m glad you’re here. And thank you.”

She watched him swallow heavily. “Said that already, Slayer.”

“Yeah, well. Making up for all the times I didn’t, I guess.” She looked at him full-on. “I knew you were the only one that night who wanted to save Dawn as much as I did. That’s why I made  _you_  promise. Willow and Tara might’ve gotten all witchy and distracted. Xander and Anya still don’t know how to have an age appropriate conversation. And Giles - well, wanting Dawnie dead wasn't exactly a glowing recommendation. But you... I knew you’d protect her until the ends of the earth.”

Spike just stared at her with a burning gaze. Some deep emotion welled in his eyes, so vivid and bright that she had to glance away. “Buffy.” His voice was a hoarse breath. “I… you’re welcome. I'm yours, you know.”

She bit her lip, unable to look at him. “I know.” She glanced up with a shy smile. “And you could’ve dumped me the moment we landed. The moment you knew the chip wasn’t working. Could’ve gone for your third Slayer. Could’ve gone to... I dunno, Timbucktoo? – Is that a real place? – Anyway. Somewhere.”

He watched her face intently, a grin forming at her teasing look. “What? And leave you wandering around the Queen’s land like a bleeding walking disaster? You’d have buggered up proper society for once and all if I weren’t here. Bloody menace to the English language, you are.”

“Menace girl, that’s me,” Buffy said with a winsome smile.

Spike chuckled at her, and extended his arm as he shrugged his dark blue jacket back on. “C’mon, Miss Menace. Let’s get some sup. Wager mine isn’t the only aching belly.”

She hadn’t noticed before that moment, but – whoa – was she ravenous. She took his arm and let him lead her out the door. “Wouldn’t say no to like a whole truck of cookie dough ice cream.”

He wrinkled his nose at her. It was a surprisingly charming look. “You and your sweets, Slayer. Gonna rot out those pretty teeth.”

“Pssh, I am all with the hygiene making.” Buffy paused, feeling the stickiness of her slept-in dress tug at her shoulders. “Err, well, when I’m not all  _Les Miserables_.” She paused. “Do you pronounce the “s”? I always do.”

“Wrong era  _and_  wrong country, pet. And no.”

“Oh. Well.” Buffy hesitated as they descended the stairs. She was running out of Victorian references. It would require some thought.

Spike squeezed her arm gently, whispering, “Showtime.”

She was about to make another likely wrong Broadway reference when she realized what he meant. The large living room was now company to a half dozen people. The women were all dressed in dark dresses – that, like hers, were convinced skin was of the uberbad – and the men lounged in light jackets while playing some kind of card game, hats all gone off to wherever their hats lived when they were indoors. She furrowed her brow. Where  _was_  that? Did they keep a special hat closet? She made a mental note to ask Spike about it later.

Luckily, none of the other boarders were especially chatty – thank goodness for that Gilesy British reserve – and they made it out the door with only a small chorus of  _Good evening_ ’s and  _How do_ ’s.

“Saw a butcher on the way here,” Spike murmured as they walked. “Few blocks down.”

“Won’t it be closed by now?”

“Nah. London’s teeming with all sorts of nasties. And there’s those like the harmless demons from Sunnyhell who like a bit of nosh and aren’t into the killing.”

“Convenient.”

“Eh, just life as usual, pet. Any place like this, with no Slayer in residence, it’s as much our city as theirs.”

As if proving Spike’s words, they were halfway to the butcher when the back of her neck began to tingle with the familiar warning of vampires. She and Spike exchanged a look, and he tilted his head sharply to their right, at the beginnings of a dark alley.

“Five of ‘em.”

“All the better to make some dust with.”

Spike flashed her a fangy grin. “Don’t I know it.” She realized then that he, too, had been itching for a fight. Well, of course he was. Spike was always ready for a tussle. It was one of the things she liked best about him. And jumping off a tower hadn’t given either of them quite the same satisfaction as a good slay.

He strode over to a wreck of abandoned pallets and yanked a couple shards clean.

“What’s with the wood all over? Does imminent fire hazard mean anything to these people?”

“Don’t know what you’re complaining about, Slayer. Makes your job right easy.”

“It’s just… sloppy,” she grumbled.

“Nineteenth century, pet. Just be glad the sewage is better.”

“Better? Oh god, better than what? Wait. I don’t want to know.”

They entered the alley then, finding a gang of five male vamps with their fangs deep in some poor couple’s throats. The couple in question was clearly dead.

Buffy tsked at them and they whirled on her with golden eyes, dropping the bodies without a care. “An alley? I mean, can’t you guys ever try for some place more original? Opera house… Mansion… Stable?”

The vamp in front snarled at her and stalked forward, the others piling behind. “Pretty little girl. I’ll rip your throat out wherever you like.”

“Mmm, tempting,” Buffy said, a finger on her jaw in mock thought. As the vamp drew close, she plunged her stake in his heart and watched him crumble. “But no.”

Then all bets were off. Spike was a snarling shadow to her left, vaulting off the brick walls on each side like a demented rabbit.

Buffy found herself with two of the vamps, letting them corner her in the far right. She threw a quick jab to the left one’s throat and kicked the other in the face. Jab. Kick. Punch. Stake. She pinned the last vamp to the ground, and plunged her stake in, humming with satisfaction as he crumbled. She felt Spike come up behind her and she turned, whirling her stake with a wide smile.

She didn't expect the thunderous look on his face as he stalked toward her, eyes brimmed with gold. He glared at her with such menace that she remembered for the first time what it felt like to be around an unchained Spike. This was the look of an unchipped Master vampire, a Slayer of Slayers, a centuries old killer. It made her shiver uneasily, which, of course, then just made her angry. She made to punch him when his voice broke the silence, deathly quiet.

“What the  _bloody fuck_  did you think you were doing, Slayer?”

Her anger wilted in astonishment. “Huh?”

He motioned wildly to the alley corner where she’d let herself get temporarily penned in. “ _That_ , Slayer.” He grabbed her upper arms so hard it hurt and shoved her against the wall, nearly taking her breath away. “Maybe I should just rip out your throat now. Save some fledgling the fucking trouble.”

Buffy just gaped at him, too shocked to struggle. None of his words were making sense. “Huh?” was all she managed, again.

He shook her hard, nearly slamming her head against the bricks. It was enough to revive her anger, and she shoved him away forcefully. “What is  _with_  you?!”

Spike snarled and stalked up to her again. “You! You selfish little twit. If you’re not going to bother to keep yourself breathing, not sure why in the  _bleeding hell_  I should bother even trying!”

Buffy blinked. Oh.  _Ohhhhh_. “Oh, Spike…” Her voice was soft. “I was… I was just...”

“Just trying to get yourself fucking drained!” He glowered at her. She wasn’t sure she’d seen the real life version of that word before now. But, oh boy. Yep, that was a glower.

She touched his arm tentatively. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

Spike glanced down at her touch and heaved an aggrieved sigh. It came out like a growl. “Just don’t bloody well do it again, Slayer.” His hard expression crumpled into something entirely exhausted and intensely worried. Worried about her, Buffy realized with a guilty flush.

“I won’t,” she promised.

He sighed and re-offered his arm. She looked at the poor couple on the ground, sprawled ungainly, ghastly in death. "Spike?"

He nodded shortly and helped her arrange them with some modesty against a wall. "Sorry, luv. Can't save them all."

"I know."

As they walked out of the alleyway and back into the street, she said, “Was that the chat you said we’d have later?”

She felt a brief rumbling laugh run through Spike's chest, vibrating her elbow. It warmed her insides. “Yeah, Slayer. That was it.”


	4. Who Invited Giles?

“Maybe we shouldn’t go fighting anymore while we’re here.”

Buffy paused, fork halfway to her mouth. They were in some grand looking hotel restaurant, the kind that had faux roman columns and absurdly patterned wallpaper. Their table was in a back corner, a kind of slight she knew Spike recognized, but didn’t herself care about. Likely, it was due to their clothes. Even though she felt like a nun on holiday, she knew she still looked a bit underdressed to the general populace.  _Good thing no one knows I’m wearing slacks under this heap_ , she thought dryly. Spike, she realized, was likely in the same boat. No overcoat, no hat. She could imagine this society’s thoughts on that.  _Why, sir, he’s practically naked! Yes, yes, he has pants. And a shirt. And a bloody tie. But no hat! Right? That’s what I said! Oh dear, cover your eyes! Spare the children!_

Still, the waiter had seated them, although she wasn’t entirely certain if it was due to their desperate faces, Spike’s flash of fang, or something else altogether.

The food had taken forever – no Doublemeat Palace here – but it was incredibly good. She’d blinked when Spike had ordered himself a full meal, but guessed it would look suspicious otherwise. She had her pork chop and potatoes gone almost before he could comment, and looked up sheepishly. He’d just smiled at her gently and flipped their plates, giving himself the now-empty dish.

“Eat up, pet.”

It was potentially the nicest thing that had happened to her since they’d gone Victorian.

And now… Buffy lowered her fork, the picture of calm. “You want us to not slay things while we’re here,” she repeated.

Spike had the decency to look put-out at his own suggestion, running a frustrated hand through his hair. A day without gel had rendered the curls fully loose, and they looked incredibly sexy.  _Oh, no,_  she thought in panic.  _Not sexy. Comfortable. They look comfortable._

“It's just, dunno what kind of ripples we might be making, Buffy. Time travel’s a bloody touchy business.”

“We may not even be in our world, though,” she felt the need to point out.

“True. But then, we could bollocks things up for the Spike and Buffy of this world.”

She waggled a finger at him. “Ohhhhh no, mister. Not wanting to royally screw up our future, I get. But we are  _not_  going to worry about some alternate selves that we don’t even know exist. They’ll just have to deal.”

When he looked like he wanted to argue, Buffy fixed him with an evaluating eye. He was promptly distracted. “What?”

“Do you need a job?”

Spike blinked. “Come again, Slayer?”

“A job. Do you need one?”

“Not sure what you’re getting at here.”

“Really, Spike, what’s not to get about needing a job?”

“Buffy…” he growled warningly.

“Because,” she continued evenly, lightly, “I have one for you.”

His irritated expression immediately became wary. “And what might that be?”

Buffy shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, just thought you might be interested in the Watcher gig. Seeing as you’ve turned into Giles. Worry, worry, worry. Buffy bad. It’s really very well done.”

Spike sputtered at her, face wide with horrified shock. “Oi! You take that  _back_!”

“Nope.” She popped the “p” pointedly and went back to eating her pork chop.

She could just feel Spike’s indignant rage, his glare at the top of her head as she chewed her food.

“That was a low blow, Slayer,” he said finally.

Buffy shrugged and gave him a look. “When you’re the one suggesting we stop fighting, there’s something seriously wrong. And I don’t just mean the new scenery.”

Spike swallowed hard and looked almost… embarrassed? Then it shifted to an expression of self-disgust. “Bloody hell! We need to get out of this place.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

He continued some kind of internal glare, muttering down at the tablecloth. “Gonna turn in a fucking nancy boy if we’re here much longer…” Then, lower, “Never again.”

Buffy stifled a grin, her curiosity getting the better of her. “William looked awfully…”

Spike cut short his muttering and eyed her darkly. “Awfully what, Slayer?”

“Gentlemanly.”

He winced.

“I mean, you said that Drusilla – what was it – set you free, but I just figured that you’d been some–”

“Bloody dock thug?”

“Well, yeah.”

Spike sighed and looked at her for a long moment, expressionless. Then, finally, “Oh, bugger it.” He fixed her with a glare. “No help for it, likely, but whatever you learn about William while we’re here,  _you keep to yourself_.”

Buffy cocked a brow. “Worried it’ll sully your Big Bad reputation? Sorry to tell you, don’t think there’s much of that left.”

His glare turned blacker. “Don’t make me rethink that third notch, Slayer.”

“I’m really scared, Spike. Shaking in my way-out-of-time boots, here.”

He threw up his hands. “Woman, you are bleeding  _impossible_!”

They stared at one another, Spike thunderous and pouty, Buffy preeningly amused.  _One point for Buffy_ , she thought smugly. Then a sudden thought took her. “I’m not the Slayer.”

Spike blinked, ire evaporating. “Buffy…”

She waved his words away. “No. No, I just mean, there’s another Slayer out there somewhere, doing Slayer-y things.”

He chuckled at her. “Quite imagine so, yeah.” He frowned. “Dunno where, though. There are a few in the next decade or so that pop up in the States, but…” His brow furrowed in further thought. It was, she decided, an unfairly attractive expression. “I  _think_  the current one is somewhere in the jungles, over down in South America. Remember some demons screaming bloody hell about down there, all chuffed when she bit it. Didn’t quite get it, at the time.” His expression twisted. “As I recall, it was a snake that did her.”

“A snake? Like demon mayor type?”

“Nah, pet. Just a snake. Lots of right poisonous types down there, yeah?”

The idea made Buffy’s blood boil. “A freaking snake? God, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Survive all the bumps in the night just to get the grand finale by a measly reptile!”

Spike shrugged. “Loads of people die stupid ways.”

“Not the Slayer.”

He looked hard at her then, his mouth curving up into an understanding smile. “Not going to let anything happen to you here. I promise.”

Buffy sighed and shoved the rest of her pork chop around on her plate. “Just don’t go all Giles 2.0 on me again, okay?”

“Right o’, pet.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Your accent really has gotten worse, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, not around you bloody Yanks anymore, am I?”

“Just one.”

He smirked then, in a way that made her relax in relief.  _Here_  was Spike. “And what a one,” he purred.

Buffy rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t help but feel pleased. It had been – she realized with a start – a long time since she’d seen piggish Spike, no matter what she told him. Chipped Spike was angry, then in love, then dutiful warrior. Somewhere along the way, the incredibly suggestive snark that was Spike had mellowed, and she suddenly wasn’t sure what she thought about it.  _I’m torn because he stopped acting like such a pig because of me, because of the Scoobies?_   _Wow, I am seriously messed in the head._  But now the chip was gone. Well, not gone, really, but apparently super fried; a 2000 on a 1-10 scale. Would new Spike take back any of that old snark?

Buffy shook her head, clearing her thoughts, as she realized Spike was staring at her expectantly.

“You’re a pig, Spike,” she replied automatically.

“Never claimed different, luv.”

Hiding a small smile, she bit her lip in thought. “Maybe we should find the Council.”

Spike looked at her like she’d lost her mind.

“What?”

“Are you off your bird? Those wankers are bad enough in our time. Doesn’t take a bloody rocket scientist to wager what they’re like in a time when chits are  _actually_ property.”

Oh. Right. She sighed. God, it sucked when he was right. “Fine. No Council.”

Spike was drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, when suddenly he stopped and snapped them together. “A gypsy!”

“A gypsy,” Buffy repeated slowly.

“Yeah. Loads of the buggers around.”

“Uh huh. And we want to… see a gypsy? Kill a gypsy? Give one a back rub?”

He scowled at her. “We want to talk to one. Most of 'em have a touch of Sight. Not like Dru, so much. More like your girl Glinda.”

“So they can see auras?”

“Some, yeah.”

Buffy sighed in exasperation. “God, talking to you right now is like pulling teeth.  _Why_  does that help exactly?”

“Time is just as visible as any other piece about us. If we’re truly back in time, or out of our time in the altogether, it should show. Some kinda...” he made a demonstrative, squiggly gesture with hands.

“How do you even know this?”

Spike fixed her with a condescending look. “I  _read_ , Slayer.” He shrugged then. “Got bored in your Watcher’s flat a lot last year.”

“Right.” Buffy sighed and straightened her back, a faint feeling of purpose glowing in her. “Okay, then. Let’s go find a gypsy.”

 

***

 

They were on the street again, walking in what looked to be the bad part of London. Maybe  _a_  bad part. The streets had gotten decidedly dirtier – with what, Buffy didn’t care to examine, although the smell was telling enough – and the buildings had gotten crumblier and squatter. There was, if it was even possible, more wood lying around.

“I want to slay things, Spike.”

He glanced over at her as they walked, carefully steering her around small clusters of people. “What? Like right now?”

“No. I just mean, I can’t stop being the Slayer while I’m here. Wherever here really is. I’m not going to let some vamp have a free meal just because he might touch a penny that somehow means something to somebody somewhen.” Her nose wrinkled. “Ugh. Don’t make me say that ever again.”

He chuckled at her. “Alright, Slayer. Can’t pretend to mind the spot of violence, m’self. Don’t recall too many important vamps around these parts anyhow.” And then he froze midstep, nearly sending Buffy flying as she stepped forward and he didn’t, flinging her back against him.

“Ooph. Spike, what the hell?”

He looked at her full-on, blue eyes dark with some realization. “Buffy. If this is my past – or some knock-off bit thereof…”

“Yes?”

“Then my family is coming.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh god, you don’t mean…”

“Angelus, luv. And Dru. And Darla. The bloody bitch.”

Something icy cold splashed down her spine. “Oh god. We have to get out of here.” She swallowed. “Would they be able to feel you? Even though, you know, you wouldn’t exist yet?”

Spike tilted his head, half-closing his eyes in consideration. “Dunno,” he said finally. “But let’s not find out, yeah?”

Buffy violently agreed. “Gypsy. Now.”

They walked more quickly after that.


	5. Blame the Vampire

_I have seen way too many Disney movies_ , Buffy reflected pensively, as they entered the gypsy camp. She’d been expecting massive, brightly colored tents from  _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. Some mysterious half circle of wagons with bells and laughter. What she got instead was the epitome of a squatters camp. A random assortment of poles – wooden of course – held up an equally random assortment of canvas and cloth. This pattern was repeated a dozen times, forming a seriously bumpy skyline. There didn’t seem to be any particular design to the tent layout, but it did – Buffy realized with some relief – roughly form a circle. If you squinted really hard. The people occupying the space were also not buying into the Disney nonsense. The women – all dark haired and tanned – wore plain dark dresses buttoned down the back, and clearly didn’t have a bathing regime. The men wore rough looking trousers with dark coats, and had caps that looked like something Giles would wear while golfing. And none of them, none of them at all, looked pleased to see the vampire and Slayer in their midst.

“Oi! Looking for a bird with eyes!”

Buffy tugged him back. “You’re going to get us killed!” she hissed.

Spike shrugged her off and strutted back into the middle of the camp. From the way the gypsies reached for the poles on their tents, Buffy had a bad feeling they knew exactly what Spike was.

“Not here to eat you lot,” he said. “Think my grandsire learned that the hard way, yeah? Just need some information.”

No one moved. Then a middle-aged woman strode forward, dressed like all the others, with a dirty apron to complete her ensemble. Her face was hard and weathered. Rock-like. Just the rockiest.

“Vampire,” the woman greeted coolly. Her voice was softly accented with something Eastern European, vaguely like Dracula’s, but without the vomit-inducing slither. She turned dark eyes on Buffy and her gaze widened. “And you… I’ve never seen a demon like you.”

Buffy balked. “D-demon?” She looked at Spike, panicked. “Why is she calling me a demon?”

Spike shook his head and glared at the woman. “This here’s the Slayer, you daft bint.”

“Ah. The Slayer. Of course.” The woman lifted a brow with a slight smile. “But not our Slayer, no?”

“Um. No.”

“Fascinating. Follow me.” The woman turned her back on them and motioned to follow. They walked through the narrow aisles of the camp, the place deathly quiet except for the regular wailing of some small child. Every adult eye watched them, judgment and mistrust written in them so clearly they could’ve been holding up signs.

“Friendly blokes,” Spike said, amused.

Buffy nodded agreement, somewhat relieved when the woman at last ducked into a tent. Well, tent-like thing, anyway. The entrance was a piece of canvas draped back toward the poles, and it looked mostly stable. Spike motioned for her enter first, which she did, with an exasperated look.

The inside of the gypsy woman’s tent was clearly lived-in and was much more comfortable looking than Buffy really expected. A dark, patterned rug covered the ground, with several dingy oil lamps bringing the space into relief, and a myriad of woven baskets and trunks strewn around. Two of the trunks were arranged in the middle of the space, and the woman motioned them to one.

Warily, vampire and Slayer sat, Spike to her left, his thigh pressed up against hers in a way that shouldn’t have been comforting.“I am called Vadoma,” the woman said, settling across from them on her own trunk. She eyed them narrowly. “Strange that the night should bring me a Slayer and vampire, side by side.”

Spike snorted. “You want strange, mate? You haven’t heard the bit of it.”

Vadoma tilted her head in a strangely Spike-ish fashion. “No soul. And yet… here you sit.”

Spike bristled. “Don’t need a bloody soul.”

“So it seems.” She turned her gaze to Buffy, eyes softening slightly. “And you, Slayer. You reek of sadness. Of death.”

Oh. Well, wasn’t that just what a girl wanted to hear? “Um. Sorry?”

Vadoma waved her words away. “Simply an observation.” She leaned down, resting her elbows on her knees. “What I do want to know, is why you are here.”

“Well, uh,” Buffy paused. “This is going to sound insane, but we jumped through a portal to save the world and now we’re kind of in the past. We think. Or some place that looks like the past. And while this whole Mormon-dress thing is interesting and all, we’d like to go home.”

Vadoma’s brows rose almost to her hairline. “I am not a witch, Slayer,” she said finally. “I know nothing of that kind of magic.”

“Yeah, we know,” Spike said dismissively. “But you’ve got the Sight, yeah? You can tell us if we’re out of our time or if it’s summat else?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “For a price.”

Buffy almost gasped in outrage, but Spike just grinned. “’Course.” He held out a half dozen small silver coins. “That enough?”

Vadoma held out her hand and Spike dropped them to her. She peered at the money and then nodded solemnly. “The price is met.”

Buffy threw Spike a suspicious look. “You have an awful lot of money for stealing from one guy on the street.”

He grinned at her. “Didn’t say that’s the  _only_  bloke who had a missing purse.”

“Ugh. God.”

Vadoma watched their exchange with rapt interest, her mouth curling in a curious smile. “You have a long association.”

“And many different ones,” Spike added, with a grin. Then he shrugged, shifting back into serious mode. “So. What’d you see? Did time go all pear-shaped?”

The gypsy woman laughed. “Pear-shaped indeed, vampire.” She fixed a clear gaze on him. “Your aura is echoing oddly, as if there’s another… you walking about.”

Spike nodded. “Sounds about right.”

She looked at Buffy next. “But not you, Slayer.”

“Nope. Would probably be seriously wigged if it was. I’m not born for another hundred years.”

“A hundred years!” Vadoma slapped her hands on her thighs, startling both Spike and Buffy. “What a strange night indeed!” She continued to watch them unblinkingly. “But to answer your question about time. Yes, I see the warp of it around you both. It stretches out into the space around you and breaks with suddenness. It tells me you do not belong.”

“And it’s our dimension?” Spike demanded.

“I see no cross-over, vampire. So, I think, yes.”

Spike exhaled a long breath. “Well, there’s that then.”

Buffy frowned. “But why?”

Both Vadoma and Spike turned to look at her, and she flushed.

“I mean, the portal we went through was literally opening every dimension ever. We could’ve ended up anywhere, in like a thousand different versions of hell. And apparently at a thousand different times. But… we came here?”

Vadoma nodded thoughtfully at her. “Why indeed, Slayer.” She paused and looked pointedly at Spike. “But it is, I think, the fault of your vampire here.”

Spike stared at her in utter astonishment. “You’re mental! I didn’t do anything!”

“I did not say that you  _did_  anything.”

Spike glared at her. “What then?”

Vadoma favored him with another cool gaze. “Your aura is echoing, vampire. Some twin to you is here, is connected to you. Called to you.”

For the second time ever, Buffy saw Spike go pale. Yep, vampires could definitely do that, it seemed. “Bloody hell.” He turned to Buffy and took her hands in his. His were shaking. “Buffy. Buffy, luv, I‘m so sorry.”

Buffy blinked. Huh? “You didn’t do anything, Spike.”

“I’m the reason we’re here, though. You heard the chit say it.”

“I also heard her say that you’re the reason I’m not in one of like a gazillion hell dimensions.” She smiled at him reassuringly and squeezed his hands. “So thank you, yet again.”

Spike just stared at her for a moment, then shook his head and dropped her hands. His eyes looked wild. “Right,” he said finally. “We’re in the past then.” He glanced over at Vadoma. “Any brilliant idea how we might get back?”

Vadoma looked at them sympathetically. “Afraid not, vampire. There are witches aplenty in London, however. Perhaps one can aid you. Although,” she hesitated, “I cannot imagine one with the power to undo what has been done. To open a portal of that magnitude.”

Buffy sighed. Willow could do it. Geez, Willow had managed to hurt a freaking god. She could open up one measly time portal like that.

Spike seemed to echo her thoughts. “Where’s Red when you need her?”

Vadoma stood then, and motioned them up. “I am afraid there is nothing more that I can do for you.” She gave them a sad, knowing look and turned away, fiddling with some trinket on a covered basket. “I wish it were otherwise.”

“Yeah. Us, too. Thanks for the other though, luv.”

“My pleasure, vampire.”

Spike made to tug her from the tent, but Buffy hesitated. “Vadoma?”

The woman turned.

“Why… why did you call me a demon?”

The woman’s brow rose again. “Because you have one. It is a very curious one, no doubt, but one nonetheless.”

Buffy blinked. “No, I don’t.”

The woman threw her a rather condescending look. “Yes, child, you do. It is much like your vampire’s here, in nature. But bound. In service to your line, I imagine.”

“That... that can’t be right,” Buffy stuttered, feeling her heart drop to her feet. “No, you’re wrong. You must be.”

Vadoma shrugged. “If you wish.”

Spike tugged at her again, and this time Buffy let him. They strode from the camp – well, Spike strode from the camp, she stumbled behind – her head whirling. Oh, god, the Slayers were powered by demons? Vampire-like demons? Even as the sudden thought terrified her, something in the deepest, darkest part of her made it ring true. Hadn’t that been what Dracula had told her, really?  _All those years fighting us. Your power so near to our own…_  She had known. She had known even then. And really, if she’d stopped to think about it, she’d known forever. Why else would she sense vampires and no other demons? Why would they sense her?

“Oh, god.” She looked over at Spike, startled to see that they were quite some distance from the gypsy camp, nearly running. He wasn’t looking at her. “Did you know?”

He glanced at her, pained. “Have always suspected, luv.”

“Oh.” Buffy tried a weak chuckle. “I guess if you have half a brain it’s pretty obvious, right?”

He squeezed her elbow gently. “It's not you.”

“Huh?”

“Not your fault you didn’t know. Your bleeding Councils knows, I’d stake my unlife on it.” He favored her with a serious glance. “But wouldn’t do well for the Slayers to know they’re ipso facto hunting their own kind, now would it?”

Buffy just gaped at him. “I guess not,” she murmured finally.

They were silent for a long moment while Buffy sorted through her thoughts. Had Giles known? He must’ve suspected. He wasn’t an idiot. But even if he had, he would never have told her. Never have given her information that made her job harder. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

Finally, she realized they were still walking at breakneck speed. “Spike?”

“Yeah, luv?”

“Are we trying to win a marathon here? I mean, I don’t have your crazy vampire internal sundial – can I talk to someone about that, if I’m part fangy? – but I’m pretty sure we have enough time to get back to the inn.”

He chuckled, but didn’t slow their pace. “Just saving time.”

“Well… I don’t think we’re leaving this particular bit of old England anytime soon, Spike.”

“Seems that way, yeah.”

“Right… so…”

“Not going to the bleedin' inn, Slayer.”

It became quickly apparent just where he was going as he crossed the street and pulled her into what appeared to be a pub. It was boisterous, cacophonic,  _low_. At least, she’d heard that description somewhere once, and it seemed to fit. This was definitely not a Giles scene. A scarred wooden bar took up most of the wall on the left, and hosted a colorful mix of drunken, suited men, and scantily clad ladies who had their scantily clads behinds all over the much-abused bar. Buffy made a mental note to not touch the bar. Ever.

The right side of the pub was taken up by low booths, mostly full, which carried a similar collection of drunken men. Most were dressed more like the gypsies than Spike, but there were a few that looked like whatever level of gentleman Spike had stolen his clothes from. What there was not, however, was women. At least, any that weren’t obviously whores.

With that fact in mind, it wasn’t entirely surprising that most of the men turned to look at her as Spike tugged her to the back of the building. Nor was it surprising to hear a chorus of wolf whistles and jeering, “bitta fresh cunt ova there!” or “getta load of the slapper!”

Spike’s grip on her arm was bone-crushing. She couldn’t see his face, but really, she didn’t imagine she wanted to. Any of the men who did in passing quickly turned back to their drinks.

Finally, Spike steered her into one of the empty booths near the back. It was a single seat facing the bar, with one way to shimmy in, the other side ending in the low booth wall. Spike set himself on the outside, on the booth’s exit. Buffy chanced a look at his face and saw that he was looking firmly forward, jaw clenched so hard it was a miracle he wasn’t crushing his teeth. His lip was twitching, very clearly fighting a snarl. His blue eyes were hard, glassy, and flickered to gold and back like lightning.

“Spike?”

“Not right now,” he said harshly, not looking at her.

“Um. Okay.”

They sat without speaking for a long few minutes, the raucous chatter and laughter of the pub drowning out any attempt at silence. Finally, someone that looked like a barman came by, wiping his hands on a dirty apron.

“Getcha a pint?”

Spike slammed down several silver coins. “Whisky, mate. Bring the bottle. Two glasses.”

The barman grabbed the money and strode off without comment. This attitude, Buffy considered, was probably typical here.

She chewed on her bottom lip, glancing over at Spike’s stony face. It was impossible to tell what was going on in the vampire’s head. “Have you been to this pub before?”

“No.”

Buffy frowned at his dismissive tone. God, his mood changes were worse than Dawnie’s. She touched his sleeve hesitantly, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, turning to look at her with steely blue eyes.

“Did I do something? I mean, I know I wouldn’t shut up about the walking fast, but that’s just me. Buffy who opens her mouth and doesn’t think. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. You’re the only person I have now and I don’t know what to do if you’re mad at me.” The words left her in a massive, panicked rush. She sounded, she realized with a pang of homesickness, very much like Dawnie. Guess her sister had to get it from somewhere.

Immediately, the cold, detached expression on Spike’s face washed away and he gazed at her with dismayed blue eyes. “Oh, Buffy.” He drew a hand to her cheek and brushed away a lock of hair, his face an expression of pure tenderness. “I’m not mad at you, luv.”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath, letting her stomach climb down from her throat. She frowned, annoyance threading through her. “Then’s what’s with the ‘I’m going to rip out your throat and suck on your brainstem’ look?”

Spike laughed at that, and the low sound vibrated incredibly pleasantly in the air around her. For a moment, his eyes flashed back to ice, and then it was gone. He sighed. “Was keeping the demon under.”

She furrowed her brow. Something was bringing Spike’s demon to the surface? “All the walking meals in here?”

He stared at her, steely again. “No.”

“Ohhhkay. Could do less with the Angel act here.”

The mention of Angel might not have been her smartest move. Spike’s eyes turned completely to gold and he really did snarl. “I'm not like bloody Angelus!”

“Not usually, no. But this?” She motioned over his face. “Super broody.”

He closed his eyes in a long blink and took a deep breath. She thought she heard a muttered, “Not bloody brooding,” but it was so quiet she couldn’t be sure. When he opened his eyes again, they’d returned to blue.

She gave him a look. “Care to explain the sudden ‘grr argh’ then?”

His mouth twisted stubbornly, but he relented with a sigh when he saw her eyes narrow dangerously. “Wanted to drain the whole bloody lot of them, alright? Saw how they looked at you, heard remarks I’d rather you didn’t know existed, could smell their bloody pricks rising. Wanted to rip off their fingers, and shove their fucking stiffies down their throats and then drain them so slow that they could feel themselves die. That or tear off their limbs one by bloody one and rip out their tongues and let them drown in their own blood. Hadn’t decided yet.” He tilted his head in consideration. “Second way would be a right waste of blood, though, yeah?” He threw her a dark, frightening smile. “Not that your idea of throat ripping and brainstem quaffing’s without merit, luv.”

Buffy gaped at him. Out of any possible explanations,  _that_ had not been one of them. “Spike, you’re really not going to do something that makes me stake you, are you? Because I wasn’t kidding. You’re all I have. And… and I really will destroy your stupid proper society if you so much as start to do something like that.”

His expression softened considerably. “Didn’t say I was going to do it, Slayer. Just said I  _wanted_  to.”

“Okay.” Her nose wrinkled. “I can’t decide if that’s one of the sweetest things a guy has ever said to me, or the grossest. Ugh.”

He perked up immediately with her words and threw her a signature smirk. “How about we settle on both?”

“How about we never mention this again.”

“Yeah, alright, Slayer,” he grumbled.

The barman returned then, and set down a large glass bottle of whisky and two short glasses.

“Ta, mate.”

Spike filled both glasses to near spilling and shoved one her way. Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Uh, no.”

“ _Drink_ , Slayer.” He clinked his glass with hers. “Cheers to the bloody nineteenth century.”

She sighed and took the glass. “To the PTB and their lousy sense of humor.”

He barked a laugh. “You got it.” He knocked back the shot. Buffy sniffed it experimentally. “Chrissake. Just drink it.”

She glared at him, then followed suit. The whisky ran down her throat like burning fire. She coughed violently, and Spike slapped her on the back.

“That’s it, Slayer. Easy go.” He knocked back another one and re-poured for her.

Buffy stared at the refilled glass, her stomach burning in a not-so-unpleasant way. “Better than beer, once it goes down,” she admitted.

He grinned at her. “We’ll make you a whisky drinker yet.”

“Much to the no.” But she took another shot anyway, gasping and making a face. Looseness started to rise in her limbs, some kind of numbing heat. Spike filled her glass again. She threw him a look, but he was too busy refilling his own glass to pay attention, so she stared at the murky amber liquid instead, holding the glass loosely.

"Spike?"

He glanced over at the wavering note in her voice, his brow furrowing. "Yeah, pet?"

She swallowed, feeling the last vestiges of alcohol draw down her throat. A cool hand suddenly covered hers around the glass. She sighed and met worried blue eyes. "Buffy. What is it?"

"What happens..." She exhaled and straightened. "Spike, what happens if we can't get back to our time? I mean, you'd be fine. All vampirey and ageless. But me, I'm just Buffy. Out of time Slayer, that's me. I'd be buried for almost a century before other me - oh god, there is another me, right? - before other me, is even freaking born." She motioned wildly. "And... and if we are actually back in time and not in just some freaksomely identical dimension that is super without shrimp, then the Scoobies might not even know that we're gone because we're not really there. We're here. Which is before there." She groaned and threw her head down into her hands. "Ugh. My head hurts."

To her complete humiliation, Spike laughed at her. Chortled, really, and then poured himself another shot. She glared at him through widened fingers. “It’s  _not_  funny!”

He downed the whisky and then tugged on her hands, pulling them away from her face with a gentle smile. “Know it’s not. Just… bloody hell, Slayer, that pretty little head of yours works a million different directions like bleeding fireworks. I’ve new respect for Rupes is all.”

She glared at him.

He sighed and turned to look at his own glass, tipping the empty container sideways one way and then the other, watching dregs of alcohol run side to side. Finally, he set the glass down and poured himself another shot. “I dunno, pet. I really don’t.”

“I wish Willow was here.”

Spike threw back the shot with a murmur of agreement. “If wishes were fishes…” he said dryly.

“That sounds familiar.”

He glanced over at her, scarred brow risen. “Didn’t take you for the science fiction type.”

“Huh?”

“It's from  _Dune_.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Never mind, pet. Just means wishes aren’t easily…” His voice trailed off abruptly.

Buffy stopped contemplating her whisky and glanced over at him. Spike was staring into space, statue still, looking for all the world like someone had glued him into position.

“Uh, Spike?”

He turned to her, blue eyes impossibly wide. “Bloody hell. It’s brilliant,” he breathed.

“Um. What is?”

He downed another shot, an insane grin pulling at his lips. “Wishes, Slayer. Wishes.”

She huffed in exasperation. “I am going to sock you if you don’t start making with the information.”

He got a goofy look on his face. “Halfrek.”

“What with the who?”

“She’s a pal of Anyanka’s. Vengeance demon.”

“Right.” Buffy frowned. “Huh?”

Spike’s grin was now impossibly wide. “Halfrek is here. In this time. In London.”

“Oh!” Buffy eyed him curiously. “How do you know that?”

His grin faded abruptly, and he threw back another shot before replying. God, how many  _was_  that? Was she going to have to carry a drunken vampire back to the inn? “I just do,” he said finally. At her look, he sighed. “Met her when I was William, alright?”

“You knew about vengeance demons when you were human?”

“No,” he said shortly, “I didn’t. Learned after the fact. Saw her a few times through the years.”

“Oh.” Buffy watched him carefully. “Ok, so we know the whereabouts of this Halfrek. What does that mean?”

He looked at her full-on, blue eyes blinding. “It means, Slayer, that we can get home.”


	6. In Which A Vampire is Drunk

"What makes you think this Halfrek will help us, anyway?"

Spike's face was burningly still, tight with anger. "Bloody bitch  _owes_  me."

"Right… Okay."

They were out on the street again, but walking at maybe a quarter of the speed of their previous walk. And really, only Buffy was actually walking. Spike was weaving. Although even  _that_  might've been a kind description. Every few steps, he'd tilt forward like he was about to nose dive, then rock on his heels and settle back, weaving for another few steps. With an exasperated sigh, Buffy grabbed his arm and felt him settle his weight against her.  _Oh good, I_ am _half-carrying a stupid drunken vampire._

"And if she doesn't," he continued darkly, slurring every word, "I'll make with the throat ripping until she does."

"Kind of hard for her to help if she's dead, Spike."

"Bloody bitch's hard to kill,” he growled. Then, with a chill smile, he said, in a voice like gravel, “Her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was white as leprosy, the Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold.”

“Um.” Was that a poem? God, that sounded like poetry. Again.

Spike shook his head and sighed. "Bloody hell, what I wouldn't give for a bleeding fag right now."

"A  _what_?"

"A smoke, luv."

"Oh." Buffy sighed, tugging Spike along as he stumbled.  _Maybe we should get a carriage_ , she thought belatedly. But that would require money. And the only money they had was somewhere on Spike's person, and she was not about to go digging around  _there_. In the back of her head, she also suspected trusting a drunk, time displaced Spike in a carriage was not a smart idea anyway. He might fang out at the driver, just for laughs. Wait, who was she kidding? He'd  _definitely_  do that. So walking. It was then that she realized she had no real idea how to get back to the inn.

"Uh, Spike? Are we going the right direction to the inn? Sunrise isn't far off, and you're somewhat more useful as not a big pile of dust." Usually.

He snorted and waved vaguely in front of them. "Just keep going. That way."

Oh, goody. Drunken vampire directions. She sighed, but kept walking, hoping that his preservation instincts would eventually win out over his desire to be utterly and totally sloshed.

Beside her, Spike took up some kind of low muttering, too slurred and quiet for her to make out.

"Want to share with the team?"

He looked at her for a long moment, unreadable, then pulled up short and flung himself away from her, arms outstretched.

“A bloody tree, Slayer!” He crowed. “I mean, a bloody tree!” He doubled over, shaking with laughter. “What ponce decided 'poem lovely s'a tree' should see the light of sodding day?”

"Uhm."

He waggled a finger at her. “Let every man stand with his Glass in his hand; And briskly discharge, at the word of command! Here's a Health to all those, whom, to-night, we depose! Wine and Beauty, by turns, great souls should inspire! Present all together! And now, boys, give fire!"

By the end of the... poem? (geez, it sounded like  _another_  poem), Spike was shouting, his voice strangely devoid of all cockney inflection, rolling instead to something smoother and cadenced, if positively slurring. Buffy glanced around, but luckily, they were the only ones around in the pre-dawn. She tugged him back to her side and shoved them along once again.

"Spike! Get a grip!"

He raised a brow at her. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

"I'm going to protest you if you don't stop turning into a poetry anthology!"

He chuckled at her, low and rumbling. "That doesn't even make sense, Slayer."

"Yeah. Well. Just shut up, okay?"

He smirked and ran a finger through her hair, twirling a strand delicately into a spiral. "There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold," he murmured softly.

"Ohhhkay. Let's walk a little faster here, Shakespeare."

He rolled his eyes. "It's Service."

"Uh huh." She looked at him questioningly. "How do you even know all this?"

He shot her an offended look. "I'm bloody well-educated, that's how!" And then, a muttered, "Cretin."

"Cretin?" Buffy shook her head. She had the distinct notion it was some kind of insult, but decided trying to ask Spike about it right now would not improve the matter. "You're well educated, huh?"

"Cambridge degree, Slayer!"

Buffy blinked. Whoa. She made to ask him another question, when the back of her neck began to tingle.  _Vampire_. Great. Glancing around, she spied – of course – an alley just ahead. Seriously, fledglings really needed to take a class in originality.  _How to kill a human and not get caught by the Slayer 101_. Or  _Throat Ripping for the Sun Challenged: Go Where No Vamp Has Gone Before!_

She untangled Spike from her and settled him against a building wall.

“Don’t. Even. Move,” she hissed.

He half-slid down the brick, with a small salute. “Right o’, Slayer.”

“Ugh. Next time, you are  _sooo_  on your own.” Then she stomped away a few steps to hunt for a stake-like object. Figured, of course, that this was the one block in this fire friendly place that didn’t seem to have half a forest encased within. She found a small branch – a twig, really – and sighed. Beggars and choosers, she thought with a shrug, and strode to the alley entrance.

A couple was hugging the rear wall, hands so tightly crowded over each other that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. The woman had her back to the alley entrance, and Buffy got a very big glimpse of butt cheek as the man tugged up her dress. Very pale, ghostly butt cheek.

“Hey,” Buffy said sharply.

The couple turned toward her, the woman’s eyes flashing gold.

“Oi! Shove off!” The man growled, grabbing the lady vamp once more. His hat was lying on the ground near him, no doubt tossed away during their physical acrobatics.

Spike’s voice filtered in from around the corner. “Don’t think you’re looking for the ol’ shag and suck, mate!”

“Spike! Shut it!”

The couple turned back around, the female vamp melting into game face. The man next to her glanced over and screamed. “Bloody hell!”

“Yeah,” Buffy said, twirling her stick. “Not exactly the kind of one-night stand you’re looking for.”

“That’s what I said, Slayer!”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Spike! Seriously!”

The lady vamp looked suddenly confused. “Slayer?” she rasped over fangs. “You’re not the Slayer.”

“Mmm, sorry to disappoint there, Queen of the Damned, but,”– Buffy leapt forward and punched the lady vamp square in the throat– “Slayer. That’s me.”

The vamp tossed her intended snack to the side, and the man head’s bounced off the brick and then lay still.

“Geez, didn’t your mom teach you to not Waste. Your. Food.” Each word at the end was accompanied by a strike. Punch. Kick. Jab.

The lady vamp snarled and slammed into her with her full weight, knocking them both to the ground. Buffy brought up a leg and kneed her in the stomach, knocking her back, then flipped to her feet. The lady vamp rushed her again, making to scratch her eyes. Buffy blocked it with puffed amusement and then shoved her tiny twig into the opening left behind.

For a moment, both Slayer and vamp froze. Then the lady vamp laughed darkly over her fangs. “Stupid girl.”

And then she crumbled into ash.

Buffy watched it fall. “Huh.”

“What happened, Slayer?” Spike called from the sidewalk.

Buffy walked over to the man to make sure he was still breathing. He was. She stepped out of the alley with a shrug. “Tiny stick. Guess it barely nicked the heart.”

Spike struggled to his feet. He glared at her. “Didn’t let her corner you, yeah?”

Buffy shook her head, and grabbed the vampire, moving them forward again. The sky was ever so slowly turning from gray haze to slightly lighter gray haze. “No cornering.”

“Good.” Then he was quiet.

Buffy eyed him thoughtfully. For not the first time, she wondered just how much of William remained in Spike. Enough, it seemed that they had called to one another across time. So probably a tad more than a speck. But what exactly had called to Spike? And what had responded? There was no soul.  _And wasn’t that the cinch_... Something other than soul was reflected in Spike. That had always, always, always been her measure for humanity. Soul? Ok. No soul? Slayage.

She huffed at the vampire at her side. “God, you can never do what you’re supposed to, can you?”

He blinked owlishly at her. “Where’s the fun in that?”

She pursed her lips, but didn’t answer. They continued down the dark pre-dawn streets of London, with Spike motioning her right or left at certain intervals. At last, they made it back to the front door of the inn, the pink tinge of sunrise just creeping over London.

Buffy rang the doorbell.

“Don’t say  _anything_ ,” she cautioned.

“Yeah, yeah, Slayer.”

Mr. Lowell answered the door a minute later, eying them suspiciously. “Bit of a late night?”

“Uh, well, we’re not tee-toaders,” Buffy said cheerfully. “Not like dear old Mr. President.” Hah! Spike would be so proud. Sober Spike, that is.

“Like Mistrrr President!” Drunk Spike echoed, instead.

Buffy jabbed him with an elbow as Mr. Lowell’s brow rose.

“Um, anyway,” she continued quickly. “It’s probably past our bedtime…”

That seemed to rouse Mr. Lowell, and he quickly stepped aside so they could pass. She hurried past him with her vampire cargo.

“If you’re here another night, pay up by noon,” Mr. Lowell said from behind them.

“Oh, right. Will do!” Buffy gave him a half-wave and pulled Spike up the stairs.

The innkeeper watched them go with poorly disguised amusement.

Getting into the room itself took a long minute as Spike searched for the prop key. He had given her a sidelong look and suggested that  _she_ find it, but Buffy had just stared until he dissented, grumbling, and rummaged through his coat.

Then finally, they were inside, door shut and locked firmly behind them. Buffy sighed as Spike shed his coat on the floor without even looking. She picked it up with a huff and draped it carefully over the desk chair. When she looked back, Spike was passed out, face down. In  _her_ bed.

“Oh, god damnit. Spike!” She shook him hard.

He just grumbled and turned his face the other way.

“Spike! Get your pale, bony behind up!”

He mumbled something into her pillow, but otherwise didn’t move.

She shook him again, grabbing his arms. That seemed to stir him, because he grabbed her arms in return and tugged her right into bed beside him. Buffy toppled down with a startled “Eep!”

And then,  _oh god_ , he nuzzled his head right against her breasts. And was he _purring_? Buffy froze. Spike, eyes closed, continued to burrow his face against her dress, lips lingering over her covered nipples, mumbling something incoherent. Unexpected jolts of pleasure shot through her, and Buffy gasped.

“Uh,” she tried tremulously. Her arms were still caught in Spike’s, mostly useless. He had a death grip in sleep. “Uh, Spike?”

He growled at her, the sound vibrating her entire chest.

“Oh, boy.”

His face moved to her neck, doing some weird vampirey smelling thing as he sniffed at her hair, nostrils flaring in time with unneeded breath. When his cool lips brushed her skin, sparking something hot and burning low in her belly, Buffy jerked away with a strangled cry. “Spike!”

He grumbled then and released her, turning over on the mattress with a sighed, “Buffy.”

Buffy laid there for several minutes, trying to get her breathing back to some kind of normal state. _What_  had just happened? And  _why_  had she liked it so much? Mind whirling, she abandoned her bed and took Spike’s instead, pausing only to shimmy out of her boots and slacks. Ugh, what she wouldn’t kill for a washing machine. She turned on the mattress, finding to her annoyance that her gaze flickered to Spike’s sleeping form every few seconds. With a disgusted sound, she sat up and swung over the side of the bed so that her legs draped over the edge. She gripped the edge of the mattress with both hands, swallowing heavily.  _So I’m attracted to Spike_ , she reasoned.  _No big. I mean, he is stupidly good looking. With his stupid hair and his stupid cheekbones, and his stupidly blue eyes. But that’s it. Attracted. Fine._

But somehow the thought wasn’t very reassuring. Or convincing.


	7. Let the Daylight Shine

By the time morning rolled around in all its sunny glory, Buffy hadn't slept a wink. And wasn’t that a weird expression. Who winked during sleep? The whole thing kinda meant eyes were all with the closure. Spike was still firmly passed out, snoring.  _Snoring._  Who knew vampires could snore? Why the hell was he even still breathing?

She shifted on Spike's mattress where she sat, still holding the edge in a death-grip. It had only been a couple hours since they'd stumbled back to the room, but it felt like years. Not helped, she was sure, by the firmly drawn curtains. But hey, between having a serious vitamin D deficiency or a pile of dust for a roommate, she supposed she'd just take a vitamin supplement.

Her mouth felt gritty and gross.  _Ugh, who I am kidding? All of me is a giant pile of gross_. She debated whether it was worth it to continue pretending that sitting was the same as sleeping or to actually get up and pretend to be a real person. The church bells settled it for her, chiming from some unknown point outside. Six a.m. Her eyes lit up. Breakfast in an hour. Then she frowned. Were women supposed to go eat by themselves? She glanced over at Spike.  _Well, too bad_ , she thought, finally.  _I want breakfast_. God only knew Mr. Lowell didn’t have a high opinion of their social graces by now, anyway.

But first, a bath. Only… the washroom didn’t seem to have a bathtub. Buffy sighed, and stripped anyway, resigned to using the wash basin to scrub herself down. Afterward, shivering in the cool air, her skin puckering into goosebumps with the damp, she was loath to put her clothes back on. Her underwear was a whole world of no. But it was either that or her starkers, as Spike might say. Determination thinned her mouth, and she reluctantly put the tent-like dress and underthings on, marching back to the room. Pilfering through Spike’s discarded coat revealed a large stack of assorted gold and silver coins. Just  _how_  many people did the infuriating vampire pickpocket? She vaguely recognized one type as the shillings Spike had paid for the room with, but the others were complete unknowns. Biting her bottom lip, she took the whole stack, wrapping them in a bit of handkerchief that was stuffed in Spike’s pocket. She paused. Spike had zero need for a handkerchief. Which meant it was likely leftover from the coat’s previous owner…

“Ugh.” She scrunched up her nose and determinedly continued wrapping up the coins. “I’ve been covered in all sorts of demon goo and badness,” she told herself firmly. “This is nothing.”

She glanced over at Spike, but he was still out – no longer breathing, apparently fully asleep. His curls were truly undone now, and cascaded freely down his forehead. She had a terrible desire to run her hand through them.

And then all at once, she had an image of Riley, sleeping on the bed in Spike’s place. It’d been – god, it’d been  _weeks_  – since she’d last thought of him. It was, she concluded, how Spike was sleeping in that moment. Flat on his stomach with head to the side, one hand thrown over the edge of the bed. When Riley wasn’t suffocating her with his way-too-enthusiastic cuddles, then he was sprawled just like that. But Riley was long gone. Gone before the portal, gone before her mom, even. And yet, Spike was still here.  _Stupid stubborn vampire._  But the thought made her smile. She drew back her reaching hand with a deep breath and left the room.

Breakfast, as it turned out, was not nearly so frightening an affair as she imagined, at least for the middle class. There was no coffee, but there were several pots of strong black tea, and a whole pile of hearty foods that seemed to make up a boarder’s English breakfast. She tried to make note of all the foods to tell Spike about them later. Eggs, toast, several kinds of sausage (one was freaksomely black), beans (she didn’t really think anyone ate _those_  outside of fourth of July picnics), tomatoes, and mushrooms. A bit on the bizarro side, but tasty.

There were only a half dozen travellers present, and they retained their blessedly British sense of reserve, minus initial exclamations about her nationality.

Still, one woman, a middle-aged brunette with large brown eyes, watched her with a kind and curious smile. “It must be so exciting to be in the Colonies!”

“Um.” Buffy swallowed a bite of toast. “It’s all I’ve ever known, really. So not that exciting to me. London is the adventure.”  _Would’ve preferred London 2001, though,_  she thought dryly.

“Oh, well, London’s a fine place, to be sure. But nothing new here! There’s so much adventure in the Colonies. Why, I read a paper the other day that said they’d found five new breeds of butterflies!”

Buffy couldn’t help but smile. “Five, really? How… fun.”

Mr. Lowell glanced over from where he sat a few spaces down. “Nettie, leave the poor Yank be, yeah? And don’t go ‘round ‘bout the book learning.”

The woman – Nettie – flushed, and Buffy quickly smiled at her encouragingly, suppressing the desire to glare at Mr. Lowell.  _Not lady-like_ , she told herself with a sigh.

“Oh, it’s fine, Mr. Lowell, really. It’s nice to have the… conversation.”

Nettie looked at her gratefully.

When breakfast had cleared, Buffy drew the woman aside. “Uh, Nettie, I mean…. Miss…”

“Lowell,” she provided with a dimpled smile. “’M Mr. Lowell’s sister.”

“Oh! Miss Lowell.” Buffy bit her bottom lip. “Well, see, my cousin and I… we lost most of our luggage on the way here. Um. Carriage accident.”

“Oh, how terrible!”

“Yes. Well. I’m in pretty desperate need of some new clothes and uh, underthings.” Buffy winced. “Do you know somewhere I could buy some?”  _God, I hope they have clothing stores._

“Oh, of course, Miss Summers.” Nettie beamed at her. “There’s a secondhand clothier just down the way.” She looked slightly embarrassed. “The kits are nothing to sing about, but they’ll do, I think.”

“Anything would be perfect,” Buffy told her honestly.

“I can accompany you, if you like?”

“Oh yes, please!”

And so Buffy Anne Summers, Vampire Slayer, Girl Who Saved the World A Lot, ended up shopping for clothes in the middle of 1880’s London. Somehow, her trips to the mall in L.A. were incredibly less complicated. If she thought the tent-like dress by itself was bad, Spike had shielded her from the worst. Or maybe because he was a guy, he just hadn’t known. Either way, it appeared a bra and panties was way out of the question here – and caused no shortage of scandal when revealed. Oops. Three hours later, Buffy left the shop with three secondhand, quickly-tailored dresses that seemed firmly middle-class – two in sensible colors of gray and dark blue, and one that was a lovely pale pink color; a bevy of underthings (stockings, garters, drawers, chemise, camisole, and a corset she had no intention of ever wearing (not being able to breathe while slaying? Double no)); along with two pairs of gloves, a real purse, and a small hat. Spike’s pile of money had dwindled considerably.

Making their way back to the inn, Buffy pulled Nettie aside when they reached the butchers. “I need to stop here for a moment.”

Nettie glanced at her in surprise from over the pile of packages she was oh-so-kindly helping to carry. “The butchers? Whatever for?”

“Uhm.”  _Think, Buffy._  “Pig’s blood. For… for blood pudding?” She winced. God, she hoped it wasn’t one of those things that sounded like one kind of food but really had nothing to do with that food.

But Nettie just nodded sagely. “Oh, of course. My grandmum has her own recipe, too. Get homesick for it still, sometimes! You’re welcome to use the kitchen at the Inn.”

“Great!” Buffy disappeared inside the butcher to Nettie’s call of, “Don’t forget the suet!”

Buffy had no intention of finding out what that meant.

At least with blood pudding apparently being a real thing, the butcher didn’t look the least bit put out when she asked for several containers of pig’s blood. It came in glass bottles, like milk, and she wrinkled her nose.  _Spike better appreciate this_ , she grumbled.

The vampire in question was still asleep when she dumped her load of purchases in the room and settled the glass bottles of blood on the desk. Loudly. And then rearranged her new clothes. Loudly. And accidentally kicked his  _(her)_  bed frame. Hard. At last, Spike sat up with a groan, rubbing his eyes.

“Bloody hell, woman. Take care, yeah? Bit hungover here.”

“Oh, are you awake?” Buffy fixed him with an innocent smile.

He glared at her, his expression immediately turning to confusion as his eyes focused. “What’s that you’re wearing?”

She’d changed into one of her new dresses at the clothier – the dark blue one. Clean underwear included, thank everything non-demony.

“Since we’re staying here at least for another day, I took the liberty of getting a change of clothes,” she said primly. “And since the money was already stolen, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Spike turned narrow eyes on her and pursed his lips. “That so?”

“Mmhm.”

He glanced over at the desk, gaze lingering on the bottles there, nostrils flaring. “For me?”

“Mmhm.”

“Ta, luv.” He rose stiffly from the bed and grabbed a bottle, turning to sit back down, only to stop short. “That's not my bed.”

Buffy put her hands on her hips, hiding a smile. “I tried to tell you that last night.”

“Bit on the piss,” he admitted, sliding onto his own bed reluctantly and draining the bottle in large, gulping swallows.

“Try a lot.” She raised a brow. “Care to tell me what last night was all about, Spike?”

He squinted at her. “What was what about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the whole too drunk to stand thing. Or the Halfrek hateage thing – I  _know_  there’s a story there. Or,” she paused pointedly, “the whole book of poetry you spouted last night.”

Spike's eyes grew very wide and he set the bottle down on his knee with what looked like painful force. “Oh, bollocks.”

“Mhmm,” she said again, putting on her Slayer face. “Start talking, buster.”

He gazed at her mulishly. "Don't know that I wanna."

To his obvious surprise, Buffy grinned. "I thought you might say that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sooo," she drew out the word, and watched him follow her mouth warily, "I figured I could either beat it out of you or..."

His eyes narrowed. "Or what, Slayer?"

She smiled again, striding over to her pile of purchases. "Or I could bribe you." She pulled out a small case of cigarettes and a set of matches, and held them out on her palm.

Spike perked up immediately. "You got me smokes?" He smiled warmly at her and stood up, reaching for them. "Why, Slayer, I take it back, you know just how to treat a man in the morning."

Buffy drew back her hand as Spike reached, giving him a look. "Talkies first."

He sighed. "Yeah, alright." But he didn't say anything more.

"So what's with the drunk thing?" she prompted.

He shrugged, walking over to the desk to grab the other bottle of blood. He took a long pull before replying. "Not so difficult to figure, yeah? Stuck in the bleeding past, with my poncy other self roaming about, aren't I?"

Buffy gave him a sly smile. "Poncy? Maybe. I heard well-educated was the term."

He sputtered, almost choking on a mouthful of blood. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "Should tape my damn mouth shut when I'm arse over tits." He glanced carefully over at her, grimacing at her expectant expression. "William was a git, alright? About as wet as a wanker can get."

Buffy frowned. "But William is you."

Spike glared daggers at her. "No, he bloody well is _not_!"

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "I so can't  _even_  believe I'm saying this." Then she straightened and pointed a finger at him. "I'm the last person that should be arguing for this, you stupid vampire. I mean, Slayer here. I'd like nothing more than to agree with you right now. Human dead. Demon moved in. Human gone-zo. Kaput. Poof. But, geez, Spike. You brought us to the freaking past."

He scowled at her, grumbling. "Doesn't mean that part of William's still about."

She fought a grin and lost. "Which part? The poetic part?"

To her great surprise, he paled. Again. Then glared at her, not replying. That was all, she figured, she was going to get about William. For now. So she changed her tactic. "So what's the plan for this Halfrek demon woman? How do we find her?"

Spike drained the rest of the bottle of blood, setting it on the desk with a heavy thud. "Cecily Addams."

"Who's that?"

He sighed. "That's her. Halfrek. She's posing as an upper-crust Victorian at the mo'."

Buffy furrowed a brow. "Why?"

"A job, pet. What else?"

"Okay. So how do we find her? Do you remember where she lives?"

"Yeah, I remember."

Buffy looked at him, exasperated. "And we're not going there right now because…?"

Spike looked intensely annoyed then, but not at her. "Because this is my past, Slayer, and we're not mucking it up one bit. Not me, not you."

Buffy blinked. "Us going to Halfrek would muck things up?"

"Bung up entirely."

She flung up her hands. "What the hell, Spike! How are we supposed to get her help then?"

He ran a tense hand through his hair, scattering curls everywhere. "Look. She's at a party in a bit, yeah? William goes out of the picture. Halfrek offs to wherever the bloody hell she goes. We just have to wait and nick her then."

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "That is some seriously specific timing. Sure we can’t find her ugliness before party day?"

"No," he said shortly.

"Well, why not?"

"Because I said so."

"Well that's not good enough! Tell me why!"

"No!"

"Why, Spike!"

" _Because she's the reason I'm fucking_  dea _d!_ "

They stared at each other, and it was impossible to know who was the more shocked. Finally, Buffy's mouth opened in a large "o". "Oh." She cleared her throat, eyes dropping to her shoes. "Oh. Well, then... um, party day it is."

Spike sighed, snatching the cigarettes and matches from her hand and turning away toward the curtained window. She heard the strike of a match, and the telltale wafts of smoke filtered in her direction. "Just gotta figure how to get in there."

Buffy wrinkled her nose, looking up at him. “Why can’t you just go?”

The vampire turned and gave her a look that clearly said, _I know you’re not_  that _bloody stupid_. “Righhht. Because two Williams – one uninvited, mind you – won’t be bloody suspicious at all.”

“Gah! Well you said William leaves." She paused. Oh god, William left and  _died_. "So we just walk in after William leaves. Problem solved.”

Spike seemed to consider that for a moment, eyes narrowed. “No. Dunno when Halfrek poofed off once I went. Need to be inside before.”

Buffy huffed an exasperated sigh. “So I go in before. No big.”

“It’s not a sodding frat party, Slayer! You can’t just walk into that kind of place. Need an invite.” He chewed at the edges of his lips in thought before looking up at her suddenly with a dark, serious gaze. “We need Charles.”

“Your friend who chased us in the street?”

“Yeah.” Spike paced the room back and forth without slowing, smoking like a chimney. It made her dizzy to watch. “He runs in that crowd. Only one who wasn’t a complete tosser. You get in as his guest, then I join you when William goes off to get drained.”

“Gee, Spike, you know just how to make an evening sound fun.”

He gave her a hard look. "Just the way it was."

She bit her lip. "Okay. So Charles."

"Charles," he agreed. He strode over to the desk. She thought he intended to grab his coat, but instead he sat down and grabbed the pen and a clean sheet of paper. She blinked.

"Is this really the time for stationary?"

Spike rolled his eyes at her. "Can't just barge in, pet. Not how it's done here. Gotta request an invite."

"Request an invite? Sheesh. Talk about red tape."

He smiled then, slightly, and started to write. "It's not so bad. And not to worry, Slayer. When Charlie-boy reads this, I wager we'll be seen by week's end."


	8. The Origin of the Smirk

Spike was only partially right. Charles invited them to visit the next evening.

Buffy had badgered Spike into buying an actual overcoat and hat – to his great annoyance – because if she was going to go full-Victorian, then so was he, darnit.

“Don’t need a damn overcoat,” he’d grumbled. “Chrissake, Slayer, this get-up was bad enough the first time around.”

She had the distinct feeling he meant when he was human, and not several days ago. “Hate to tell you, Spikey, but William’s clothing from the other night looked way more intense than this.”

He had shut up after that, seemingly and  _rightly_  worried that she’d make him dress like that if he kept up protesting.

“I still say we should check out the local witchy scene,” Buffy said as they walked. "Just in case this Halfrek/Cecily ho isn't making with the cooperative."

Spike blinked at her, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Did you just call Halfrek a ‘ho'?"

She shrugged. "Am I wrong? She was obviously making with some kind of supermassive bitchery to drive you to, erm, die."

He chuckled and squeezed her elbow gently, looking carefully ahead. "You’re not wrong, pet." He frowned. "But William was a soft tosser."

Buffy thought it was probably best if she didn't point out that Spike had inherited that trait. The vampire who had dropped everything when his sire’s life was in her hands. The vampire who had brokenheartedly kidnapped her friends to try and force them into casting a love spell. The vampire who had once chained her to the wall and threatened said sire to make her believe he loved her. The vampire who had withstood torture from a hell god so she didn’t suffer pain. Yes, Spike had inherited that in spades. Not that he had told her this Halfrek’s supermassive bitchery was related to anything romantic. But this  _was_  Spike, after all.

Buffy, despite those burning thoughts, managed to hold her tongue, and was incredibly proud of herself for it.  _Look at me, all with the tongue holdage_. The thought made her wrinkle her nose.  _Now,_  that _is a weird expression._

Spike, unaware of her internal monologue, made a small noise in thought. "S'pose it can't hurt," he said finally. "Just don't fancy telling all the world about our lil displacement. Not exactly good to wise up the magic community to a lost Slayer."

Buffy frowned, then realized after a second that he hadn’t said anything about himself. He was worried about  _her_. Something warm bloomed in her chest. "How about we’re just two out-of-time normal everyday people, then?"

He gave her another amused look. "Just two blokes on holiday?"

"Just the holiday-iest."

"’Cept I wouldn't come  _here_  for a bleeding holiday."

Buffy shrugged. It was drizzling slightly, and the streets were dark and damp as they walked. "Clouds and rain? Isn't that like a vampire's paradise?"

“Never liked the rain,” he grumbled. “And don’t think it counts as holiday if we live here, luv.”

She waved around between them with her free arm, with bright, feigned ignorance. “So who’s living here? Not you. Not me. We’re vacationing.”

“Yeah? From what? The glories of Sunnyhell 2001?”

“Among other things,” she said mysteriously.

Spike favored her with a warm smile, then glanced back to the street ahead of them. They were in another residential district, but this one looked, well,  _richer_  than the one they’d seen William in. Not that the lines of townhomes hadn’t looked respectable, but there were no townhomes here. Instead, small mansions lined the streets, replete with front gardens and cast iron gates. Buffy half-expected there to be butlers lining the streets calling out “how do you do’s.”

“We should find a witch, anyhow,” Spike said suddenly, a shadow crossing his face.

“For something other than time portalling us home?”

“Yeah.”

“I swear to god, Spike, if you keep up with the single word replies, I will break your nose for good.”

He smirked at her. “Promise?”

“God, you are  _impossible_!”

“Believe I said the same thing about you the other day, pet.”

“So we’re two impossible people, then. Taking a holiday in sewage-friendly England.”

“Seems so.”

At her death glare, Spike chuckled. “Need the witch for a charm, luv. Family’s coming. Would rather they not sense me.”

“Oh.” She glanced over at him. “Can a witch do that?”

“Don’t see why not,” he said, but he didn’t sound certain.

They arrived at Charles Delancey’s property not long after, a giant old brick building that spilled out nearly to the street.

“Your friend is like uber rich, isn’t he?”

“He has a bit of dosh, yeah. Family money.”

“God, Cordelia would be all over him.”

“And give him a literal run for his money, I ‘spect.”

They grinned at each other. Then, without warning, Spike’s expression dropped into something that looked dangerously close to tender, blue eyes watching her intently. He brushed a lock of hair back from her cheek with intense concentration, and Buffy swallowed hard, her heart thundering in her chest. Then he looked away abruptly and pulled the bell cord.

“Let me do the talking, Slayer.” His voice was even, uninflected.

Not trusting herself to speak, Buffy just nodded.  _This is getting ridiculous,_  she told herself sternly.  _You just haven’t had a guy in the bed that is Buffy’s lately, that’s all_. And oh boy, was  _that_  not a useful thought. And it was also, she realized, way not with the true. Remembrances of Spike’s cool lips on her skin, his growl sending absurd shivers down her spine–

Buffy jumped as the sound of quick footsteps echoed dully and the massive wooden door swung open. The man from the street appeared, a tall youngish figure with tousled black hair and a crooked nose. He was still dressed like a Giles look-alike, all tweedy and striped shirted. “William?!”

“Hullo, Charlie.”

“Good lord! It  _was_  you the other night!”

Spike nodded, his mouth twisting. “Yeah. May we come in?”

Charles seemed to notice Buffy for the first time. “Oh, yes. Come in, come in!”

He moved away to let them in, and then shut the door firmly behind them. Buffy wondered briefly why Charles was answering the door – didn’t they have servanty type people for that? – when he dispelled her curiosity a moment later.

“I sent the servants away, just as you requested,” Charles was saying, ushering them down the hall and into some kind of wallpapered sitting room. They sat at his gesture, Buffy and Spike in the couch and Charles across from them in a large chair. There was a small fire in the fireplace to the left. And whoa. Was that marble?

Charles cleared his throat and her attention snapped back to him. He was shaking his head, seemingly still befuddled by Spike. “I suspected something unusual afoot… but this! You old dog! Wandering about the night as a cockney! Never would have suspected.” He stopped suddenly and narrowed his eyes. “I say, how do you keep changing your hair?”

“That's a rather long story,” Spike said dryly.

“Indeed, indeed,“ Charles muttered. He looked over at Buffy and jumped to his feet with wide-eyed panic. “Oh, my apologies, miss! You must think me a right twat!”

Buffy blinked. “I must?”

Spike rumbled a laugh. “He’s apologizing for the lack of introductions, pet. Charlie, meet Miss Elizabeth Summers. Elizabeth, meet Charles Delancey, my oldest mate.” He said this with a smirk that she was certain Charles didn’t understand at all.

“My pleasure, Miss Summers. And I say, you’re an American! How delightful.”

Buffy nodded, slightly dazed at Spike’s use of her assumed name. There was something oddly polished in his tone when he said it, a strange kind of gentleness she didn’t think had gotten past Charles’ notice.

“Yes, well,” Charles began hesitantly, looking back and forth between Slayer and vampire as he spoke. “As I said, your letter was quite intriguing. Especially when you requested that I make no mention of it, were I to see you before tonight.”

Spike eyed him narrowly. “And did you?”

Charles gave him an odd look. “Well, I didn’t see you, William, as you well know.”

Spike rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “Yeah, about that, Charlie-boy. Didn’t exactly know.”

“I don’t understand.” Then Charles blinked and laughed a little. “Good lord, you’re quite dedicated to this doppelganger act! Bloody cheeky fellow! What  _are_  you up to?”

Spike sighed and looked helplessly at Buffy. She shrugged and gave him a ‘ _you are sooo on your own for this’_  look.

“Right,” Spike said finally. “It's no act, mate.” He paused, looking decidedly sheepish, very clearly not looking at Buffy. “Least, not been an act for better part of a century, yeah?”

“A century?” Charles leaned forward in his chair. “What in heavens are you going on about?” He glanced at Buffy. “Miss Summers, is he quite alright?”

“Depends on who you ask,” she said innocently, and Spike gave her a dark look.

Charles laughed in delight. “What a lively young lady! Good for you, William, ol’ chap! Never would have suspected. Thought you were still all caught on –”

“Yeah, about that,” Spike said firmly. “Charlie. Look at me, mate.”

Charles stared in bemusement at his friend. “I  _am_  looking at you, William. What’s this about?”

“Do I look like William to you?” Spike demanded. Buffy could tell he was fighting a growl.

“What kind of question is that!”

When Spike didn’t reply, seated still as a stony statue, Charles squinted and leaned closer, his head tilting. “William…” he said at last, reluctantly, “you _are_  looking a bit peaked, old fellow.”

Buffy burst into laughter.

Spike sighed, and Charles just looked dumbfounded.

“Pipe down, Slayer, yeah?” Spike said, wearily. “Difficult as is.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Spike, just spit it out already.” She grinned at Charles, to the man’s apparent shock. “If Charles here is so Spike-like, he’ll be fine after he gets – what did you call it? – oh, right, ass over tits.” Then she realized what she said and couldn’t help but flush. Spike smirked at her.

Charles looked pole-axed. “Miss Summers!”

She squirmed in her seat and threw Spike a rueful look. “Oops. Women don’t say that here, do they?”

He leered at her. “Not to worry, pet. Your pretty lil mouth never looked so good.”

This time, Charles looked downright appalled, and he stood, almost shaking with anger. “William Pratt!” he exclaimed. “That is no way to speak to a lady!” He frowned suddenly. “And did Miss Summers call you  _Spike_?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Spike, will you just tell him already?”

“Tell me  _what_ exactly?!”

Both Spike and Buffy just stared at the man for a long moment. Charles stood, chest heaving. His hair – before just tousled – was a disaster, and his shirt was coming untucked. His eyes were wild. They both were trying very, very hard not to laugh.

Charles caught their expressions and balked. “This is  _not_  amusing.” He glared at Spike. “If you have come to my home to astound and insult me, William, you have quite succeeded. I find this behavior most appalling.”

Spike was at once contrite. “Sorry, Charlie-boy. Not trying to make fun.”

Charles glared at him. “What  _exactly_  is your purpose, then?”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Spike stood up and shifted into game face.

To Charles’s credit, he didn’t even scream. His jaw just grew slack, and he dropped soundlessly into his chair, eyes never leaving Spike’s face. No one said anything for a long moment.

Spike shifted back his human guise and sighed. “I'm not William, alright? Or, he’s not me yet.” He pursed his lips. “Bloody time travel.”

Charles stirred, face still incredibly still. “I’m sorry, did you just say  _time travel_?”

“Yeah, mate. Jules Verne, yeah?” Then Spike paused, looking irritated. “Bleedin’… never mind. You’ll understand in another couple decades.”

Charles very slowly turned to look at Buffy. “Has he gone mad?”

She shrugged apologetically. “You’re talking to a girl who isn’t actually born for like another hundred years so…. no.” She cringed. “Sorry.”

“Who isn’t…” If it was possible, Charles's eyes got wider.

“Uh, Spike? I think he’s going to faint.”

Spike strode abruptly across the room, to where a decanter of some dark liquid stood on a low table. He poured three glasses and strode back, shoving one into Charles’s hands and another into Buffy’s before sitting down again. Buffy wrinkled her nose.

“Oh, don’t even gimme that, Slayer. You took the whisky down just right the other night. And this is brandy. Like candy.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I seriously doubt that.”

He rolled his eyes at her, then turned back to Charles. “Drink up, mate.”

Charles didn’t need to be asked twice. Once the glass was emptied, he took a shuddering breath. “I am not at all sure what is going on, William.” He frowned. “And what in the heavens was wrong with your face?”

“Nothing wrong, Charlie. Just a vampire.”

Buffy expected fear or disbelief on the man’s face. What she got was utter confusion.

“Uh,  _Dracula_?” she said helpfully.

“Bloody tosser.”

“Not  _him_. Geez, Spike.”

“Not written yet, anyhow, luv.”

“Seriously? God, that’s annoying.” She stared at her glass of brandy, shrugged, and gulped it down. “Ugh!”

“Prefer the whisky, myself,” Spike agreed. He looked speculatively at Charles. “You ever read them penny-dreadfuls? Good ol’ Varney? Even that Polidori chap had summat, yeah?”

Charles scoffed. “Sordid tales to scare children and entertain the masses, William.”

Spike slid back into game face, gold eyes flashing. “This look like a kiddie tale?”

Charles swallowed, his eyes narrowing in fascination. “I dare say it does not.”

“Right. Charlie, look at me.” Charles did. “William – the William  _you_  know, mate – is not me. I’m him, in about 120 years.”

“I think I need another drink.”

“Good man.”

It was several drinks later before anyone spoke again. They had all retaken their seats, Charles gripping a full glass like an anchor. “So,” he said abruptly. “You are William, from… the future?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re a… vampire?”

“Got it in one, mate.”

Charles downed his drink. He looked at Spike with tight curiosity. “What in the heavens are you doing here, then?”

Buffy meekly waved a hand. “That would be my fault. Well, Spike’s actually. But he didn’t have to jump into the portal with me, so…” she shrugged. “let’s just go with 50/50 on the faultage.”

“I’m afraid I understood very little of that, Miss Summers.”

“Bloody menace to the English language she is, Charlie.”

“Don’t make me try out my British again,” Buffy warned.

Spike shuddered. “Once was more than enough, pet.”

Charles tapped a finger on his glass impatiently. “An explanation would be most helpful.”

“Right. Thing of it is, we – that is, the Slayer and I here – didn’t mean to come back to here, it just happened. But now we need to get home, and Cecily is our way to get there.”

“Miss Addams? What in the world has she to do with this mess?” Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “William, is this some bizarre plot to win her favor?”

Spike glanced over quickly at Buffy, looking distinctly embarrassed. “Christ, Charlie, not been around that bloody bint in a century, alright?”

Charles followed Spike’s gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips as he looked at Buffy. “Oh, I quite see, William. Well, I must say, your current choice seems a much more suitable one.”

Buffy flushed. “We’re not–”

“We’re just friends,” Spike cut in firmly.

Charles looked unconvinced. “Whatever you say, William.” He frowned. “Or it Spike? Dear lord, what an atrocious name.”

Buffy snorted. “Don’t ask how he got it.” She rolled her eyes. “Or William the Bloody.” A pause. “Actually, I don’t know that one, although, you know, seems pretty self-explanatory.”

Charles laughed. “William the Bloody? Why that’s–”

“None of your business,” Spike growled, glaring daggers at Charles.

“Uh, right,” Charles said hesitantly. He cleared his throat. “So, assuming that I’ve not gone mad and I am in fact entertaining a future William who is a vampire and a Miss Summers who is not yet born – and, mind you, I’m not entirely convinced I haven’t gone completely dotty – then you must have come to me for a reason?”

Spike smiled a real, true smile, letting his game face drop. “Always were quick, Charlie. Yeah. That party that George Evans is hosting in a bit? Need you to take the Slayer.”

“The… who?”

Spike blinked, glancing apologetically at Buffy. “Sorry, force of habit. Miss Elizabeth.”

Charles turned to her. “He calls you  _Slayer_? My sincerest apologies on behalf of my friend here. First ‘Spike’ and now ‘Slayer’! Good lord, he’s lost all manner of decorum in a century, it seems.” He shook his head thoughtfully at Spike. “If only your present day self could hear you, William Pratt! You’d have a right conniption.”

Buffy sat very, very still, hoping that is she didn’t breathe, she wouldn’t break apart in peals of laughter. Spike had just been properly and thoroughly thrashed  _about his manners_. And,  _Oh god, I can’t hold my breath any longer._  And then she collapsed into helpless howls, nearly bent over on the couch, chest shaking. Spike glared at her.

“Miss Elizabeth! Are you quite alright?”

“She’s fine,” Spike said dryly. “Just finds our current topic bloody amusing.”

“Well, she certainly seems to take your devolved manners in stride.”

Buffy giggled so hard, it was almost a sob.

“Yeah, have your laugh, Slayer.” He lifted a scarred brow. “Least I still know well enough not to try and date a  _hell god_.”

Buffy stopped laughing suddenly and glared at him. “Ben was human, you… you… you stupid vampire! And we didn’t even date,” she grumbled.

Charles cleared his throat. “While this is a fascinatingly obtuse conversation, will you please explain why exactly you're involving me?"

"Told you, Charlie. Need you to get the Slayer into Evans's party."

"And I'm your first choice for this... maneuver?" He looked pleased, if baffled. "What – what makes you think I won’t bung up this entire charade? I assume William – or anyone else for that matter – is not to know of your... presence.”

Spike gave him a sly look. “Because, Charlie, I remember how well you cheat at poker.”

To Buffy’s surprise, Charles didn’t look offended at that remark. Instead, he smirked devilishly, and suddenly she knew  _exactly_  where Spike had gotten that stupid sexy smirk of his.

"Quite right, old chap. Quite right,” Charles agreed, still grinning. “How fun."

Buffy raised a brow. "Fun? Wow. That is so not what I thought you'd say."

Charles looked her over appraisingly, eyes narrow. "Would I be correct in assuming that you've never been to a gathering of London’s elite, Miss Elizabeth?"

"Uh, that would be correct to the nth degree."

His brow furrowed, and he glanced over at Spike. "I say, she does speak rather curiously, indeed. Even for an American."

"Bloody education system's gone to hell, Charlie."

Buffy huffed. "Hey!  _Someone_  here had to spend most of freaking high school wandering graveyards dusting baddies. It's not like homework was more important than world saveage. I don't recall  _you_  complaining at the time, Mr. Mancheddar United."

"Manchester, luv."

"Whatever."

Charles eyed them both, bemused. He frowned at Buffy suddenly. "Did you say 'graveyards'? What in the heavens were you doing there?"

"Um. Dusting – killing – vampires."

Charles blinked and looked suspiciously at Spike. "But not William."

Spike smirked. "I'm rather hard to kill, mate."

"Oh, you wish."

"I seem to recall that Joyce had to rescue you the first time, Slayer."

"That was  _one_  time."

"Only need the one, pet."

"Well, it didn't happen, did it? And I seem to recall you receiving a number of spectacular ass-kickings since then."

Charles laughed suddenly then, and both Slayer and vampire turned to him, startled.

He grinned widely at them. "Good lord! You two quarrel like a married couple."

Buffy flushed hotly. Spike swallowed hard and looked at his feet.

Then Charles gave a small sound of understanding. "Slayer! Oh, I see. It's a... title?"

Buffy nodded. "Yep. Vampire Slayer, actually, although I'm an equal-opportunity slayer of all things baddie. The only one in the world. Chosen."

“But you’re just a young lady!"

Buffy almost laughed. It was eerily similar to what the boy in the alley behind The Magic Box had told her so recently.  _But you’re just a girl!... That’s what I keep telling them_ , she had said. Buffy opened her mouth to make the same reply, but Spike beat her to it.

“Buffy’s never been only a lady,” he said in a steady, firm voice. It rang with a level of conviction that made her throat tighten.

“Ah, ‘Buffy’?”

“Slayer.”

“Oh, I see.” He gave her a small smile. "You bear many titles, it seems, Miss Elizabeth."

"Title girl, that's me."

Charles frowned again. "Ah, yes. Back to our earlier discussion..." He paused. "Please understand, I hold you in the highest regard..."

"But you're about to say something that might sound rude?"

"Well, yes."

"No worries. I’ve had  _loads_  of experience with that. It’s a Watcher specialty.”

"Watcher?" Then he waved away any attempt at a reply. "Never mind. Strange words for another time. What I mean to say is that, if you are to attend a party with the high society of London, you cannot simply march in." He smiled. "As I have the strangest feeling you might do."

"Good judge of character, Charlie," Spike remarked, impressed.

"Oh, shut up," Buffy said, scowling.

"Well, regardless, Miss Elizabeth. We will need to, err... make the appropriate preparations."

"Preparations?"

Charles tapped a thoughtful hand to his chin. "Indeed. You have not quite three weeks until the party–"

"Three  _weeks_?"

"Yes," he murmured, clearly deep in thought. "Barely enough time, I quite agree. But still, we should be able to bring you up to snuff by then. And have appropriate attire ordered, of course."

Buffy frowned. "Up to snuff?"

"On society, Miss Elizabeth. And current etiquette, of course."

Spike snorted. "Good luck there, mate."

Charles shot him a cool look. "You seem as if you might need a refresher course yourself,  _Spike_."

Spike looked startled for a moment, then grinned. "I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, Charles."

Only... whoa. Did that just come out of Spike's mouth? The voice was the same, kind of. But the accent was all...  _wrong_. It sounded cultured, polished, clean. Very,  _very_ unSpike-like.

Charles appeared amused. "A front then. As I suspected."

"Not a front, mate.  _That_  was a front." He shrugged. "Took this on almost as soon as I vamped up. Your nancy boy William is long gone."

“I quite doubt that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then Spike chuckled lowly. “Missed you, Charlie-boy.”

Charles gave him a piercing look. “Yes. As I imagine I am soon about to miss you.”

Spike started. “Dunno,” he said cautiously.

“William, you don’t look a day older than when I last saw you.”

“Oh, that.” Spike shifted uncomfortably. “Be glad when I don’t come back, Charlie. And if you do see me after Evans’s party – the me that isn’t here – then bolt in the other direction, yeah? Don’t ever need  _your_  blood on my hands.”

“Good lord.”

Spike fixed a very vampirey glare on him. “I  _mean_  it.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Buffy watched the exchange with interest. Spike was worried about Charles. Very, very worried that his soon-to-be fledgling self would make him a meal. She frowned. And yet that self very obviously hadn’t done so, the last time around. Weren’t vampires supposed to go after all of their loved ones first? Easy, gullible snacks. And Spike said it himself, Charles had been William’s only real friend.

She bit the bottom of her lip and watched as the furrowed worry of Spike’s brow smoothed with Charles’s assurance. She had a sudden memory of Willow telling her about Spike’s drunken rant when he’d kidnapped her for the love spell.  _I mean, Buffy, he was super out of it. All fangy and cry-y. Kept saying how Drusilla said he wasn’t demon enough for her. I kinda felt bad for him, you know?_ God, what if Spike had _never_  been ‘demon enough’? What if… (and here her stomach dropped, and she grew light-headed with something she vaguely recognized as an epiphany) What if Spike had always been more like a Slayer than your everyday garden-variety vampire? Buffy had a demon somewhere, all demony and bound, and – no matter how much the thought entirely ooked her – it didn’t change the fact it was there. Or the fact that she was still human on top of it. Buffy and Slayer both.  _But I have a soul_ , she argued to herself.  _What would I be like without that?_ And _that_  thought was somehow incredibly, soul-crushingly frightening. And then,  _Oh, god_ , she realized,  _Spike’s more like Angel than he’s like Angelus._  These days, anyway. God knew pre-chip Spike would have killed her as soon as they landed in London, without even the tiniest speck of remorse. She hesitated. Wouldn’t he? But now… here was Spike, all headache free again – free to rip and suck and kill – worried about a man who had been his friend a hundred years ago. And she had no idea what that meant.

 _That is way too much Buffy thinkage for one day_ , she told herself, and realized that she’d tuned out Spike and Charles’s continued conversation almost entirely.

“An inn is no place for you, William,” Charles was saying vehemently. “I  _insist_.”

Spike looked completely amazed. “If you’re sure.”

Buffy frowned. “Sure about what?”

Spike glanced over. “Charlie-boy has invited us to stay, pet.”

Charles shrugged. “It will also make our preparations much easier to manage, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Oh!”

“Is that quite agreeable?”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Delancey.”

“Charles, please.”

“Charles,” she amended. “Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure.” He looked sideways at Spike. God, that was  _another_  look the vampire had apparently stolen. “It is, I admit, also to my advantage. What other opportunity have I to glimpse at the future?”

Spike laughed. “Believe me, you don’t wanna know.”

Buffy bit her lip. “Spike, we probably shouldn’t make with the huge share-age.”

Spike chuckled. “He’s just pulling my leg, luv. Ol’ Charlie here’d be bored outta his skull if he didn’t have a bloody mysterious future to look on.”

Charles smiled. “Quite right.” Then he looked at them with something bordering on wearied amusement. “I still feel as if I will wake in the morning to this having been a most bizarre dream.”

“Sorry to disappoint, mate, but we’re not going anywhere.” He grinned. “You invited a vampire in, Charlie-boy. Not about to get rid of me that easy.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Fair warning: he snores.”

“Oi! I do not!”

“Just the snoriest.”

“Bloody annoying chit.”

“Just to you, Spike.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Yes, definitely a married couple,” Charles said mildly.

Their banter ended in embarrassed silence.


	9. An Angel(us) Walks Among Us

They found a witch the next evening. She looked nothing like Willow or Tara. But then again, she wasn't exactly human either. Oh, she looked human enough, with grey blonde hair piled into a bun and a grandmotherly face, but there was something about her eyes that struck Buffy as particularly demony.

"Uh, is she...?"

"Yeah, pet. Half-breed, I think."

They stood just inside a small apothecary. Apparently, that was the code word for "magic shop" in this era. Glass bottles lined a small room hardly larger than her bedroom in Sunnydale, every one labeled with a small slip of parchment tied to the top. The demony witch woman stood behind a low counter to the left side, by what was probably a modern-day (to 1880) cash register. There was a small door behind her, shut and – by appearances – locked. They were the only current customers.

"Good evening, good evening!" The woman said brightly. She moved out from behind the counter, revealing the rest of a dark green dress and a thin frame. Crow's feet littered the sides of her eyes. "How can I help you, sir? Madam? Sleeping tonics are half price."

Spike strutted forward, flashing fang. "Need a charm."

The woman's face immediately lost its warm chipperness, and fell to something wary and composed. She suddenly looked far less human. "Ah. Welcome, Vampire." The woman glanced back at Buffy, eyes narrowing.

"Not a vampire," Buffy volunteered cheerily, moving to peer at the bottles on the wall. Most of them were filled with a variety of herbs and weird creature parts similar to those she'd somehow stopped noticing in the Magic Box, every one labeled in dark, flowing script.  _Linseed Stems. Hair of Wolf. Lavender. Slime of Frophla._

“Bird’s just along for the ride,” Spike said with a shrug.

“Oh. I see.” The woman gave Buffy a chill, knowing smile that made her skin crawl.

Spike growled lowly. “A charm,” he repeated. “Need one, yeah?”

The woman drew her gaze back to Spike. "There are many kinds of charms, Vampire. What do you wish this one for?"

Spike's expression grew flat, his fingers tapping slowly on his thigh. Buffy knew that he was choosing his words carefully. "Got some family coming that I don't care to see, yeah? You know how it is with us vamps, no good way to lose 'em. Need them to not know I'm 'round."

The witch woman looked thoughtful. "Hmm. I believe I have something for that. A spell that would muffle the connection." Her eyes narrowed. "Is your sire part of this visiting family?"

"Yeah."

She pursed her lips, striding back to the counter. "Shame. That makes this a bit trickier." The witch drew out a key from beneath the counter and slid it into the locked door behind her. Buffy wandered closer, curiosity getting the best of her.

The door didn't lead to a room as Buffy expected, but instead opened into a shallow closet. Like the rest of the shop, this closet was filled to overflowing with labeled jars. Oh, well, that was… boring.

The witch drew out a large, red-colored tome from the bottom of the closet, along with three jars, the glass tinted a dark brown. She pulled out a small china bowl and poured various amount of the liquids – because they all turned out to be liquidy – into the bowl, muttering lowly. The hair on the back of Buffy’s neck started to stand on end, in a way that was distinctly  _not_ vampire-related.

Looking up, the witch gestured impatiently for Spike to move next to her. He did, after a moment of hesitation.

“Not gonna make me drink that, yeah?”

“Unless you would like your insides to boil out, Vampire, I don’t recommend it.”

Spike’s scarred brow rose. “Right then.”

She grabbed his arm and placed it on the counter next to the bowl, pulling up his sleeve. From under the counter, she grabbed something that looked suspiciously like a gigantic sewing needle. Spike looked at it apprehensively.

“I’d rather all my limbs keep intact.”

“Do you want my services or not?”

“Just saying.”

The witch snorted. Dipping the needle in the liquid, she drew it out, dripping, and then very lightly began to poke the skin on the front of Spike’s forearm, chanting loudly.

“Oi! That stings!”

The witch ignored him, continuing to chant. She re-dipped the needle several more times. Buffy crept closer, wanting to see what design the needle was making. It was an eye. A giant, creepy, half-closed eye.

At last, the witch gave one last shouted cry, and all the oxygen seemed to suck out of the room for a second. When Buffy could breathe again, the witch was moving to pack up the supplies, clearly done.

“That’ll be two pounds, Vampire.”

He stared at his arm warily, then stiffened. “Two pounds! That’s bloody highway robbery.”

“I can undo the spell right now, if you’ve changed your mind.”

Spike subsided, grumbling, and handed her two large gold coins.

“Ta,” she said dryly, moving to the register.

Spike looked at her for a long moment. “Say, you know anything about portals?”

The witch paused, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “A touch. What is it you wish to know?” She pursed her lips. “And the knowledge will not come free. Even if you should not like what you hear.”

He nodded slowly. “’Time portals.”

For the first time, the witch looked surprised. “Time is a very tricky portal indeed. Not to be lightly attempted.”

Spike chewed on the bottom of his lip. “But possible, yeah?”

“Without a doubt. There have been many recorded instances of witches and warlocks travelling to the past through the eons and dimensions.”

“What about the future?”

The witch blinked. “That…” She shook her head. “The future is an entirely different matter, Vampire. The past is a thread of things already done. The future is dark and unmade. I have not heard of such a voyage before. A successful one, that is.”

Spike frowned. “Never?”

“Never.”

“Bollocks.” He glanced over at Buffy, met her distressed gaze. He pulled his sleeve down, glancing warily at his newly covered arm. He handed the witch another gold coin, to her apparent satisfaction.

“Right. Cheers, then.”

He took Buffy’s arm, and they exited the shop silently, moving down the sidewalk at a quick pace.

Buffy tried to still the sudden feeling that her stomach had dropped to her feet. Spike squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Never mind, luv. Wishes don’t care about past or present.”

Buffy nodded. Neither of them mentioned the very real possibility that Halfrek wouldn’t help. Or that, in some other million ways, they could fail.  _No_ , Buffy thought to herself sternly.  _I’m the Slayer, damnit. And if I have to hold down this Halfrek ho myself, I’ll do it._  Then another thought struck her.

“Uh, Spike?”

“Yeah?” He sounded tired.

“What did that witch woman think I was, exactly?”

He glanced over at her warily. “Don’t quite follow.”

“When you said I was along for the ride. She acted like that meant something.”

Spike’s face stilled and he looked at her, mouth tight with anger, his eyes flickering with an emotion she couldn’t place. Finally, she realized what it was. Fear.  _Spike is afraid? What is he afraid of?_ And then,  _Oh_.

“Spike, I’m not going to hit you,” she said gently. “Just tell me?”

He sighed, then looked at her apologetically. “You remember when we saw Captain Cardboard getting suckjobs, yeah?”

Her stomach tightened, roiled. She didn’t think the image of that – of Riley sprawled on the floor, a vampire latched on to his wrist – would ever really fade. “Yeah.”

“Right. Well, it's not uncommon for a human to have that kind of… dealing with a vamp. Vamp gets reliable meals, human gets happies. Everyone is jolly good and fed.”

She recoiled. “Not  _uncommon_?”

“Sorry, pet.” He winced. “’Specially in this time, yeah? Hard to be a reputable Victorian wanker if bodies start following you around. Much better to have a bevy of blokes or birds on tap. In the same circles, come to the same parties, and so on.”

“God, that’s just… that’s just…” She couldn’t think of a word gross enough for that.

“Not killing, though, Slayer,” Spike said abruptly. “Willing victims. How’s that worse than leaving ‘em cold and dead?”

Buffy frowned. “Well… it’s not, I guess,” she admitted. “It’s just…”

“Repulsive?”

“Yeah.”

She felt him stiffen next to her. Then, very lowly, he said, “Gotta eat, Slayer. Just like everyone else. Can’t all survive on pig’s blood.”

Realization welled in her. “You miss it.”

“’Course I do,” he said roughly, not looking at her. “It's not just the blood, Buffy. It’s the life, yeah? Not the same when it comes from a bloody hog dead and hung for two days.”

She bit her lip. “But you won’t do it, will you? Start biting people again.”

He sighed and then leveled her with a serious, blue gaze. “Would never give you any reason to stake me, Slayer.”

She held his gaze steadily. “I’m glad.”

He searched her eyes, expression softening. “Never do anything to hurt you, Buffy.”

“Anymore, you mean,” she said with a small smile.

“Anymore,” he agreed.

She shrugged then, thoughtfully. "You know, you never really did hurt me. Not like Angelus."

And then – as if her words could conjure the vampire – they turned the corner, and ran almost smack-dab into three quarters of The Scourge of Europe.

Spike reacted immediately, shoving Buffy roughly behind him, and moving them abruptly to the side so that she was crushed against a brick wall, Spike's back covering her body. He growled, immediately in game face, and the sound reverberated through her.

Angelus, Drusilla, and Darla stared at him.

Angelus blinked widely then, looking greatly amused. "Whoa there. Not trying to interrupt your dinner, boy-o," he said silkily, in a lilting brogue. His hair was loose and incredibly long, draping his face almost down to his neck. He wore a fashionable (she assumed) suit and overcoat, his shirt ending in a tall white collar and massive tie.

"A mite touchy there," Darla agreed, looking equally amused. She also appeared dressed to the height of fashion and money, in a deep red, bustled gown. A black parasol was at her side. Her long blond locks were pulled up into some intricate hairdo.

Drusilla was considering them with narrowed eyes, her head tilting in that super unnerving way of hers. She was dressed similarly to Darla, except her gown was a shimmery black fabric, nearly blending into her dark hair. She looked, Buffy admitted grumpily, quite beautiful. But still super with the crazy. "This one doesn't belong, daddy," she said poutily. "Out of place! Make him wait. Not my knight!"

Buffy thought her heart might beat its way out of her chest –  _oh god, the spell didn't work_  – but Angelus rolled his eyes. "Give it a rest, Dru." He surveyed Spike speculatively, ignoring Buffy almost entirely, except for a brief chilling, suggestive smirk. "Not a fledgling. You feel old, like a Master." His eyes narrowed. "Why don't I know you?"

It was then that Buffy remembered – in this time – Spike was nearly as old as Angelus.

"Because you're blind as a bleedin' bat?" Spike suggested.

Buffy wanted to kick him. This was  _so_  not the time for that.

Angelus laughed uproariously, and then his expression hardened, dark eyes glittering. "Watch your mouth, boy, or I'll rearrange it for you."

Spike scoffed, intentionally loosening his stance, acting for all the world like he didn't care. "You're welcome to try, mate.” She felt him tense. "I'd like that, point of fact."

Darla made an impatient, annoyed noise, glancing around. "The street is not the best place for this tete-a-tete." She shrugged. "We're off to the theatre. Want to bring your dinner to-go?"

Buffy blinked. Was Darla inviting Spike to  _join_  them?

Spike shrugged, seemingly casual. "Dunno you tossers from Adam."

"We're vampires you want to get to know," Darla said, with a smug smile.

He glanced back at Buffy. "Bit busy here at the mo'."

"Oh, please. How long does it take to drain one little girl?"

Spike growled again. “Maybe you wankers have the pleasure of leaving bodies around, but this here is my territory. Don’t waste a good shag or suck."

Angelus leered in Buffy's direction. "The lass is good for both, I reckon."

"She's  _mine_ ," Spike growled. His voice was harder than she'd ever heard it.

Angelus just shrugged, looking pompously skeptical. God, had he always looked that annoyingly arrogant? Buffy wanted to punch his face in.

"We're going to be late," Dru said suddenly. "Miss Edith shall be quite cross with us."

Darla sighed. "She's right, Angelus. We're going to be late for the show." She looked pointedly at Spike. "Are you coming or not?"

"Raincheck, mate."

She shrugged, turning away. "Your loss."

And then The Scourge was gone, melting into the night. Buffy felt Spike release an explosive breath.

"Uh, Spike? Kinda trapped back here."

Spike turned abruptly, releasing her. Golden eyes blinked at her. He was, she realized, still in game face.

She touched his brow gently, curious, and glanced around. "Might want to put that away before someone sees."

He melted back to his human guise immediately. She could feel the bones shifting beneath her fingers. They watched each other silently for a long moment. Then Buffy withdrew her hand with a shaky laugh.

"Guess the spell worked, huh?"

Spike sighed. "Seems so." He touched her hand then, lightly, and simply stood there, looking down at. It made her tingle oddly.

"Um. Is my hand okay?"

He blinked, and met her eyes. "Yeah. Sorry." He withdrew his touch. "Just checking."

She frowned at him, confused. Then,  _Oh_. Spike was the most tactile creature she'd ever met. Touching her was his way of knowing, really truly, that she was okay.

They stood in silence for another long moment, and Buffy could feel the tension radiating from them both.

"Let's go find something to slay," she said abruptly.

He looked at her, surprised. Then he smirked, curling his tongue behind his teeth.  _Guh._  "Right o', pet." He took her arm and they started walking again. "Where to?"

"Just point us in the direction of baddies." She paused. "And we should grab some pointy objects along the way."

"No more tiny sticks?"

"Ugh, no. That vamp was wayyy too smug."

He laughed, a deep, pleased sound, and directed them across the street, purpose in his step. "Whatever you say, luv."


	10. The Original William Pratt

“Am I going to have to learn to waltz?”

“What?”

“Or… or dogtrot?” Buffy frowned. “Or cat-reel?” She was  _sure_  that one was a dance. Why were they all named after animals?

Spike stared at her, scarred brow risen. “I think you mean foxtrot and quadrille, luv.”

“Yeah, those.” She looked at him expectantly. “So, am I going to have to learn them?”

They were sitting in Charles’s house, in a space Spike had called the sitting room. It looked more lived-in than the room they’d seen their first night (which Spike had called the drawing room, of all things. What exactly were they drawing?), and clusters of books and papers were scattered across the low table in the middle of the room. Buffy sat on the sofa, with Spike across from her in a reading chair. He had been thumbing through a slim volume that she deeply suspected was poetry. Charles was in the corner, hunched over a desk, very seriously scribbling away at something.

Spike set down his book on the chair arm with a firm slap. “Why in the bloody hell would you need to learn them?”

She gave him a look. “The party. Isn’t it all ribbons and… and dance cards and big ballrooms?”

Spike snorted. “Not that kind of gathering, pet. S’a house party.”

“Oh, so it  _is_  like a frat party!”

“There’s not a bleeding keg, Slayer!” He gestured vaguely. “Just at this Evans bloke’s house. The blokes talk about bloody boring things and drink brandy, and the birds talk about bloody boring things and drink wine. And sometimes they talk about bloody boring things all together.”

“Oh.”

Spike snorted and picked up his book again. “Charlie, you have your work cut out for you.”

Charles glanced up from the desk, smiling faintly. “No doubt. But nothing worth doing is ever easy, eh?”

Buffy glared at them both.

A knock on the door made all three turn to attention. Michael, one of Charles’s manservants, stepped in the room with a short bow. He was a short, squat man, and the poster child for British reserve. “William Pratt to see you, sir.”

Spike stood up abruptly, book tumbling to the floor. “Oh, bollocks. I’d forgotten.”

Charles glanced over carefully at Spike. “Thank you, Michael. Where is Mr. Pratt waiting?”

“In the entryway, sir. He said to extend his strongest apologies for the unannounced visit, but claims it was of the utmost importance.”

Charles tapped a finger on the desk. “Please hold him there for a moment while Mr. Spike exits. Then you may show him in.”

“Very good, sir.”

As far as the servants knew, (Mr.) Spike was William’s cousin, here to surprise him at an upcoming party, having been away in the Colonies for several years. Buffy was Spike’s ward, here for the exposure to London society. It wasn’t the strongest alibi, but it at least hopefully kept the servants from gossiping too indiscreetly.

Spike ran a tense hand through his hair, tossing curls every which way, and laid a stern look on Buffy.

“Don’t go making trouble, Slayer.”

“Who me?” She smiled innocently.

He shook his head at her and exited the room with a self-suffering sigh.

There was the muffled sound of voices and then approaching footsteps. William strode into the room a minute later, making a beeline for Charles at the desk. “Charlie, I–” Then he froze, wide-eyed, and very slowly turned to Buffy. “Oh,” he said in near-whisper. “I feel quite the heel.” He looked back to Charles, appearing thoroughly embarrassed. “Why, you already have company, Charles. My apologies, I should go.”

Charles stood immediately, extending an arm. “Nonsense, William. Please stay, I insist.” He nodded toward Buffy. “This is Miss Elizabeth Summers, the ward of one of my American associates. I have agreed to act as her host and companion as she explores London. Miss Elizabeth – this is William Pratt, my oldest and dearest friend.”

William turned toward her fully, his face still scarlet. “How do you do, Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured.

Buffy smiled and met the eyes of the original William Pratt. They were, she realized with a start, Spike’s eyes. She wasn’t sure why that should have surprised her, but it did. The Master Vampire had always had incredibly expressive eyes, eyes that seemed at once to make him ridiculously old and boyishly young. Eyes that saw right through her every artifice, mood, and punch. And they were William’s eyes after all, it seemed.

William cleared his throat nervously. “Ah, Miss Elizabeth?”

Buffy blinked and then flushed, realizing she’d been staring. “Oh! My apologies, Mr. Pratt.” And god, didn’t  _that_  seem weird to say to the man wearing Spike’s face. “You just… ah, remind me of someone?”

“Do I?” William half-smiled, as if unsure if he should feel pleased or not. “A pleasant reminder, I hope.”

“Depends on the day,” she muttered, too low for him to hear. Then, “Without a doubt.” She beamed, half at herself. She sounded incredibly Victorian.

“An excellent association then,” William declared. He took a step to the side and then paused, stumbling. He blinked, looking down. Spike’s book lay at his feet. He picked it up, bemused, a real smile lighting his face as he read the cover. “Yours, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Yep, that’s mine! Oops, must’ve knocked it over. Silly me.”

He handed it to her gently, his fingers brushing hers. Quietly, hesitantly, he said, “On my way a moment I pause; Here for you! and here for America! Still the Present I raise aloft—Still the Future of The States I harbinge, glad and sublime.”

“Um.” She glanced down at the book in her hand.  _Leaves of Grass, 1867_. “Yes, indeed.”

He smiled at her, a true, unguarded look that was almost blinding. “I have always had quite a fondness for Whitman, radical though he may be.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed, vaguely. Internally, she thought,  _Radical? God, a poet can be radical? How radical can ink on paper be?_

“You, ah, had something of importance to discuss, William?” Charles said then, watching the scene with barely disguised amusement.

William started and shook his head slightly, as if rousing from sleep. “Oh! Yes, Charlie.” He paused, glancing quickly in Buffy’s direction. “I was, ah, in dire need of your good opinion.”

“Oh?”

William pulled a folded bit of paper from his coat. “I have just been invited to Mr. Evans’s gathering on the sixth.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes, quite,” William said eagerly, then stopped suddenly. “Oh, Charles, I’m not flaunting, am I?”

Charles chuckled. “Not to worry, William, I have my own invitation about.”

“Oh, most excellent,” William said, looking relieved.

“And?”

“And…” William hesitated, then got a look of fierce determination on his face. It was almost a Spike look. “Well, I… Charles, I would like to declare my intentions to Miss Cecily.”

Charles’s face was carefully neutral. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” William waved a bit helplessly, nearly knocking off his spectacles. “But I am not certain how to go about it. And I… well, I don’t wish to bung it up.”

Charles sighed and placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I am only slightly acquainted with Miss Addams, William. I’m not sure of what help I can be, old boy.”

“But you…” William snuck another look at Buffy and said very quietly, “You have quite a way with ladies.”

Buffy hid a smile.

“Indeed. But Miss Addams isn’t just any lady, is she?”

“Most certainly not!”

“Then William, I recommend that you do what seems right and true to you. What  _you_  think would capture Miss Addams’s affections.”

William frowned. “But I don’t know what to offer her, Charlie-boy.” He laughed at bit morosely. “All I have are words.”

“Then perhaps it is words you should use.”

William seemed to think that over for a long minute, his brow furrowing in a very familiar way. “Perhaps you are correct,” he said finally. Then he smiled a bit wryly. “I’d best get started then, shall I? Three weeks is not long at all a time to create perfection in words. Or, at least, the closest that one such as I can come to it.”

Charles laughed and clapped William on the shoulder. “I have the greatest faith in you, old chap.”

William smiled and turned to leave, nodding briefly to Buffy. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth. I hope you enjoy your time in London.”

She smiled in reply, and he left without another word.

Buffy sat still for some time after that, distantly staring at the book in her lap. “He’s so different,” she murmured finally.

Charles chuckled. “Not nearly so much as you think, Miss Elizabeth.”

She looked up in surprise. “Really? He seems awfully different to me.”

Charles gave her a steady look. “I think that a credit to William’s acting, rather than the man beneath it.”

“You mean Spike.”

“Yes, of course.” He gave her a small, knowing smile. “He’s still William, you know. Just…”

“Freer?”

“More guarded.”

Buffy blinked.

“William – the William of here, that is – wears his heart on his sleeve, Miss Elizabeth. He’s suffered a fair bit of tragedy in his young life, but nothing that has quite affected the whole of his heart.”

“Until Cecily.”

“So it seems.”

She cringed. “Enough that he ends up dead.”

“Yes, well, whatever it is that you call him now, I’d hardly say it’s dead. I’ve never met a corpse with such shite manners.”

Buffy laughed and rose to her feet. “Speaking of the annoying vamp… I think I’ll see what he’s gotten himself up to.”

“Relieving me of my stores of brandy, no doubt,” Charles said dryly. “However does he drink that much?”

“Vampirey metabolism.”

“Indeed.”

She found Spike in a small study near the back of the house, drinking straight from a decanter of brandy. He was collapsed into a chair by the fireplace, uncomfortably close to the flames.

“Nancy boy gone?”

“William? Yep.”

The vampire took a long drink from the decanter, staring at the fire. Buffy sighed and sat down in the chair next to his. He passed her the decanter, and she hesitantly took a drink before giving it back.

“Ugh.”

He glanced over at her with a faint smile. “I think Charlie has taken to hiding all the good nip.”

“Smart man.”

“Wanker.” He took another pull, then said abruptly, “Slayer. I need you to make me swear to summat, yeah?”

“Huh?”

He looked over at her with steady blue eyes. William’s eyes. “I need to you to make me swear,” he repeated slowly, “to not try and do something that would muck up the past. Don’t wanna bung it up.”

It was the weirdest echo of William’s words, and Buffy paused a minute, before making a small disbelieving noise. “Oh, and I suppose picking a fight with Angelus was a great demonstration of that.”

He shrugged. “Only way to make sure Peaches buggers off is to make it seem like he might have to break a sweat.”

“So you made him think you were going to cause trouble.”

“’Course.”

“But now they know you, Spike.”

He took another long pull from the decanter. “No, they don’t, luv.” He held her gaze seriously. “They only saw the demon. And the demon didn’t look or talk like William.” He paused, looking thoughtfully down at his be-spelled arm. “By the time they notice any similarities, it’ll just be put as odd coincidence. Fledgling William won’t feel anything like a Master vampire and he  _will_  feel like family.”

“Drusilla noticed.”

“Bloody Dru can see the bleeding stars through the ceiling, luv. And you’ll notice she wasn’t right pleased to see me. She wants  _her_  William.” He paused, taking another long pull. “An’ he’ll be there soon enough.”

Buffy sighed.

“Buffy, ask me to swear it.”

She huffed in annoyance. “Why do you need me? Just swear it to yourself, Spike.”

He shook his head violently. “No, luv. I’ll break every single bloody promise to myself when it suits.” His eyes found hers, burningly bright. “But I’ll never break a promise to you, yeah? Make me swear, Slayer.”

She slumped in defeat. Who could possibly withstand  _that_? “Spike, promise me that you won’t do anything to change your timeline or mine.” She frowned. “Or anyone else we know.”

He sighed in relief. “I promise you, Buffy.” A pause. “Slayer, do you promise to not muck with the timelines of us, or any of the tossers we know?”

“Yes, Spike, I promise.”

He nodded assent and took another gulp of brandy.

Buffy watched him gently. “Is there something you were afraid you wouldn’t be able to stop from changing, if you could?”

He barked a laugh. “A hundred somethings, Slayer. A hundred somethings.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “But one in particular.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“None of your bloody business.”

“Ohhkay.”  _I am so not dealing with broody Spike right now._ Rolling her eyes, Buffy stood up and made for the door, and heard Spike stand abruptly behind her. Attempting to swing the door open, she found it suddenly held fast by a pale, vampiric hand.  _Geez, temperamental much?_  She turned with an annoyed huff, blinking as she realized Spike’s lean frame was incredibly close to hers, his arm blocking any exit on the right side. His other arm hung loose at his side. Her skin practically vibrated with the nearness of him.

“ _What_ , Spike?”

He just stared at her for a long moment, blue eyes unreadable, face tight with something that wasn’t anger, but wasn’t quite resolve. Then, without preamble, he crushed his mouth to hers. The force of it sent her stumbling back into the door, arms flat against the paneling. Soft lips pressed into hers, cool and forceful, and his tongue flicked at her lips for entry. Her body jolted at his touch, and writhing tendrils of need flooded her core. She gasped, and he took the opening to delve into her mouth, his tongue sharply demanding a reply in hers. She gave it before she could even think not to, and tangled every inch of her mouth in his. He tasted like brandy and tobacco and something purely Spike, a combination that flooded her senses and made her feel almost woozy. And somehow – god,  _somehow_  – despite the fact that only his lips were touching her, he was consuming her whole body. Sharp pains of desire crashed over her in heated, coursing waves. Flame, meet wick. Everything was on fire. She nearly slid to the floor, her legs turning to jelly.

And then, suddenly, his mouth was gone, and Spike whirled away from her just as abruptly as he’d come. Without a single word, he collected the decanter he’d set on the floor and collapsed back into his chair by the fire, never even looking at her.

Buffy gaped at him for a long moment and then, trembling, fled.

What was  _that_? What  _was_  that?  _What was that?_ was her only coherent thought.


	11. Revenge of the Chip

She didn’t see Spike again for three days. The oh-so-very-with-the-mixed-messages vampire had been making with an incredibly annoying Dracula-style disappearing act whenever she was near, leaving her with only the slightest of tingles on the back of her neck as evidence that he’d come and gone. She wanted to tell him that he was being just like the slimy Eastern European vamp – that he was being a stupid, idiotic coward – just to get him to stay and let her yell at him and get it all out of her system. Flushed, clean, back to their regularly scheduled programming, and so  _very_  far away from whatever the hell was going on. But he didn’t seem willing to give her even that. The bastard.

How  _dare_  he, she fumed. She wanted to punch his stupid nose right off his stupid face. She wanted to kiss him until oxygen ceased to matter. She wanted to know what in the hell he thought he was doing leaving her so aching and wanting and confused that when she went to bed at night pulsing with want, all she could picture was his face, feel the coolness of his lips, imagine the wet warmth of his tongue on her clit. And when she finally came with panting, strangled breath and clenched hips, all she wanted was for him to be there, kissing every single inch of her body. And that just made her angrier. What was he  _doing_ to her? For a vampire that claimed to love her, he seemed to enjoy torturing her just as much. But then, he hadn’t said anything about love since they’d first arrived in the Victorian Era. Maybe,  _maybe_ , she thought, he was over it. Maybe it really had been obsession and now he’d seen enough of her to be bored. And maybe now he just wanted to torture her with her own lust until she couldn’t take it anymore. Until she was so wild and crazy that she ripped off his stupid clothes and fucked him silly. And she wasn’t altogether sure that wasn’t exactly what she wanted to do.

Preparations with Charles were her only respite from the deep and dangerous lava pit that was her libido – as she didn’t dare patrol alone in London with The Scourge at large – and she threw herself into them with a fury. If only they weren’t so,  _so much_  with the boring.

Today, the third day since she had seen Spike, Buffy was sitting in the sitting room (at least  _this_  room’s name made sense), staring at a pile of newspapers stacked on the low table in front of her.

“You want me to read all of these?”

Charles eyed her from the desk with a small smile. “That is the general function of newspapers, Miss Elizabeth. To be read.”

“God, you’re as bad as he is.”

“William does have quite the right sense of things, now and then.”

She scowled at the papers in front of her. “Why can’t you just  _tell_ me about the news of London 1880?”

He chuckled, not looking up from his desk, where he was marking something that looked very ledger-like. “Because, Miss Elizabeth, it is capital exercise for your mind. And there is also the very important consideration that I do not wish recitation to be my main activity for the day.”

“Ugh. Fine,” she grumbled, grabbing the topmost paper. It was something called  _The Daily News,_ and featured a large blocky headline proclaiming,  _Royal Albert Now Open – Commercial Boom Expected_.

“ _This_  is news?”

Charles glanced over to peer at the headline. “Well, a bit old now, as it was last month, but yes. Quite an exciting addition to the shipping industry. It is likely to mean great advances for London.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Buffy and research are super non-mixy things, Charles.”

“I do not know what resources you have at your disposal in your time, Miss Elizabeth, but here we must take the manual route.”

“Meaning?”

“The newspapers will need to be read. By you. Or else I will despair of this entire endeavor.”

“I take it back. You are worse than  _Giles_.”

Charles grinned at her. “This Watcher-person you have mentioned? I dare say, Rupert Giles sounds like an interesting fellow. It would be quite a pleasure – though an impossible one, I understand – to meet him.”

“That would be way too much British in one room.”

Charles laughed soundly. “You do realize you are in the heart of the Queen’s Empire, Miss Elizabeth? British-ness, as you might say, is quite a given.”

“It’s the kind of British-ness, Charles. You’re all… stiff upper lippy.”

And there was that familiar smirk. “Smoke and mirrors, Miss Elizabeth.”

She gave him a sly look. “You know, William did mention something about you and the ladies.”

Charles took her jab in stride and leaned casually back in his chair. “That he did. I’m a confirmed bachelor, and I make no apologies for it.” He threw a heavy lidded glance her way that practically oozed sex appeal. “In fact, if William weren’t so clearly besotted with you, a charming American in my home would be quite the lovely distraction.”

Buffy felt herself blush up to her hairline, and she wasn’t sure if it was more from mention of Spike’s feelings for her, the incredibly smoldering expression on Charles’s face, or some terrible combination of the above. “Much with the overkill, Charles. Geez, put that away.”

He laughed in delight, immediately erasing the leer from his eyes. “As I said, Miss Elizabeth. Smoke and mirrors.”

She shivered slightly. “You should’ve taught William that look. Cecily would have melted into a puddle if she was any kind of alive at all.” Her nose scrunched up. “Well, she  _is_  a vengeance demon. So who knows.”

Charles gazed at her, amused. “I have the strangest feeling that  _Spike_  is quite capable of that expression.”

Buffy flushed again, then forced herself to consider the comment calmly. She firmly ignored the fact that her heart felt like it would beat out of her chest as she recalled the insufferable vampire’s face. “It’s not the same. Not like that stupid smirk of his – although he added a ridiculous tongue thing. When Spike looks at someone like  _that_ , it’s all sorts of predatory. Desire, sure, but it’s all vampirey. Desire to take, to kill, to claim.” And why didn’t that analysis bother her the way it should have? It should definitely have  _not_  made a fire burn low in her belly. “Yours... I don’t know, but it’s different.”

Charles chuckled softly. “It is different because my look promises innocence, and yet demands the remainder of none.” His mouth twisted with wry humor. “A polarity with which we Victorians are quite skilled.”

“So… an ‘I’m going to fuck you but you’re still going to be all virgin-y in the morning’ look?”

Now it was Charles’s turn to flush, and he did so quite spectacularly, clearing his throat. “Quite.” He shifted a paper around his desk with sudden focus. “That is perhaps all that is best said on that entirely inappropriate subject.”

“But it was just getting fun, Charles.”

He fixed her with a stern look. “Newspapers, Miss Elizabeth.”

Buffy sighed and turned back to the pile of paper and ink that made up the news of June and July in London, 1880. She spent the next hour trying very, very hard to find the price of pole beans more interesting than thoughts of Spike kisses, or Spike leers, or very blue-eyed Spike gazes. Ugh. Stupid, confusing, sexy vampire. The next time he showed his face, she thought fiercely, he was going to get thoroughly punched.

And then the screaming started. Buffy and Charles looked at each other with twin expressions of bewilderment as a very masculine, piercing, tortured howl filled the house.

“Oh dear lord!” Charles stood up abruptly. “William!” He rushed from the room, Buffy at his heels. Her heart leapt into her throat. Spike was screaming. Oh god, Spike was  _screaming_. Why was Spike screaming?

They found him in his room on the north side of the house, a room with few windows, and thick curtains that the servants had been very firmly warned to never open. Said servants were currently littering Spike’s doorway, wide-eyed with terror.

“Mr. Delancey! What do we do? He’s jus’ gone all like the devil is eating ‘im!”

Charles paused only a moment. “Everyone is to go to the other end of the estate. Now. And do not come near this room until I tell you otherwise.”

The look on his face apparently brooked no argument. Buffy and Charles entered the howling room, and Buffy locked it firmly behind them.

Spike was on the floor, rolling madly, hands clasped to his head as if it was trying to fly off. And screaming like he was being murdered.

“Oh god,” Buffy breathed. She knelt next to him, wincing at his vicious, torn howls.  _This,_  she thought shakily _, must be what hell sounds like_. Charles knelt next to her, and, together, they held the sobbing, screaming vampire still on the wooden floor.

“Miss Elizabeth! Do you know what has happened?”

With a light-headed, sinking feeling, Buffy knew she did. “It’s his chip,” she said hoarsely. “Spike has… he has a little piece of metal in his brain. When we… came here, it got all sorts of fried. It must be going off.”

Charles stared at her. “Why in the heavens would he have that?”

“Um, it stopped him from eating people.”

He looked pole-axed, then incredibly angry. “Did  _you_ do this to him?”

“No!”

Charles’s gaze cleared somewhat, and he stared at Spike with undisguised pity. Then his mouth tightened into a firm line. He stood and wrenched a pillowcase from the bed. “Please hold his head still, Miss Elizabeth.”

Buffy did, flinching wildly as Spike howled even harder. Bending down, Charles took the cloth and stuffed it right in Spike’s mouth, muffling the sounds considerably. The vampire’s shouts settled into a low, agonized keening.

“So sorry, William,” Charles said heavily. He looked back at Buffy. “What can we do?”

She bit her lip. “He needs a surgeon.”

“ _Brain_  surgery? Good lord, Miss Elizabeth. That’s just not done!”

She threw him a look she knew was all Slayer. “ _Find. Someone_ ,” she ground out. She looked helplessly at the tormented vampire in her arms. “Or Spike is going to die.”

Charles gaped at her helplessly. “But there’s… there’s no one to do that sort of thing!”

Buffy growled, everything in her turning tight with fear. She couldn’t lose Spike. He was the only one she had. She couldn’t lose him. She just couldn’t. “Then bring a butcher! Or... or someone else good with sharp, pointy objects, okay? We have to get the chip out.  _Now_.”

In the end, it  _was_  a butcher that came, apron smeared with likely a dozen different kinds of animals. Distantly, Buffy thought,  _Well, it’s a good thing vampires can’t die from diseases._

They strapped Spiked down to the kitchen table (well, Buffy strapped him down, both Charles and the butcher staring at her show of unusual strength), splayed like an animal ready for slaughter.

The butcher, a Mr. Hill, looked to be a man in his late forties. Out of the all things in Victorian England that had ended up  _not_ being stereotypical, he was not one of them. He was tall, big, and built like a bull. He looked like he might catch the cows and kill them himself. And he was staring at Spike like the vampire was going to reach out and tear his head off. It had taken, Buffy guessed, no considerable amount of money to get him in the house.

Mr. Hill was shaking his head, backing away, until Buffy grabbed his arm. Firmly.

“This man is going to die unless you do this,” she said. No point in telling him the patient was already dead. “The worst you can do is kill him a few minutes sooner, okay?”

He glanced at Spike’s keening form. “But, miss, I…”

“Can’t do anything but help,” she told him flatly.

Mr. Hill swallowed harshly, then nodded and picked up his saw.

Later, Buffy tried to do everything in her power to forget the sight of Spike having brain surgery. The one thing she noted, with detached surprise, was that there was far less blood than she imagined.

At some point early on, Spike mercifully passed out from the pain. Charles had tried to pour some brandy down his throat, but any attempts to remove the cloth from his mouth just resulted in agonized wails. When the chip was finally gone several hours later – along with a large chunk of Spike’s skull that the butcher very firmly pressed back into place, and held there with a swath of thick bandages – they carried Spike back to his room, and the butcher left, looking for all the world like he’d never eat meat again.

Buffy and Charles sat in chairs next to the vampire’s bed, across from each other, staring at nothing.

“How do you know he’s still alive?” Charles asked finally, his voice thick and hoarse.

“Because he’s not dust,” Buffy said quietly. And that was the single comfort of the entire day. Spike was not dust. It was a terribly hollow comfort.

“He isn’t breathing.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

“Do you think…” Charles’s voice trailed off, and she felt him gather his resolve. “Do you think he will wake up quite himself?”

Buffy bit her lip. “I don’t know. The chip was going off for a really long time. And… Mr. Hill wasn’t exactly a brain surgeon.” She smiled weakly. “But he’s a vampire. Spike was in a wheelchair once, you know.” Her eyes blinked shut. “I put him there, actually. Dropped a church organ on him. And he got better.”

“That… that is quite remarkable.”

Buffy’s eyes blinked open in sudden thought. “He’s going to need blood. A lot of it.”

Charles nodded. “I will have a butcher,” he paused, “a  _different_  butcher, contacted immediately.”

“No.”

“Miss Elizabeth?”

“It’ll be pig’s blood. It won’t… won’t heal him enough.”

Charles blinked at her. “I am afraid I don’t quite follow.”

She thought back bitterly to Spike’s words outside the apothecary. “It’s not about the blood, not really. It’s about the life. And old pig’s blood doesn’t have a lot of it. It could take him… ages… to get better.”

“I don’t understand.”

Buffy felt her breath catch in her throat. All at once, she knew exactly what she needed to do. “Slayer blood.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Buffy rose from her chair, suddenly feeling a million years old. “My blood,” she said wearily. “It’s like a… universal antidote.” She thought of Angel, dying from Faith’s arrow. She tried not to think of waking up later, in the hospital, mostly drained. “It’ll cure things that pretty much any other blood won’t. Heal things that might not otherwise ever get healed.” She smiled grimly. “Only other real option is sire’s blood. I’d go grab Drusilla and drain Miss Bunches of Crazy right now, if I hadn’t promised him not to mess up the past. So it has to be me. Just call me blood donation Buffy.”

“Oh dear lord.”

Buffy smiled faintly. “That’s exactly what Giles would say, if he were here right now.”

“Indeed? And what else would your Mr. Giles say right now?”

Buffy laughed bitterly. “He’d be appalled that I am even considering giving Spike my blood. He would likely do everything in his power to talk me out of it.” Her gaze fell to the vampire on the bed. Spike was incredibly pale, even for him. And he looked really, truly dead, half covered in bloody bandages. It scared her in a way she wasn’t sure she’d felt before. “The worst part is,” she said softly, "before, he probably would have succeeded.”

“Before?”

“Before here. Before London in 1880. Before Spike risked everything to try and make sure that I got home to my little sister in one piece. Before–,” she swallowed, her throat suddenly thick. “Before I knew that he was as much a man as a monster.”

Charles looked solidly at her, and his voice was kind. “Then it is to William’s benefit that this is now.” He paused. “And that I am not Mr. Giles.”

Buffy met his eyes, blinking hard as tears threatened the edges of her vision. “No,” she said. “You’re not. You’re William’s friend. And I don’t know how I can ever repay you for everything you’ve done.  _Are_  doing.”

Charles waved away her words, sighing wearily. “Nonsense, Miss Elizabeth. This is the most excitement this house has seen in a decade.” He paused, glancing at Spike’s still form. “And indeed in the service of my dearest friend.” He chuckled then, shaking his head. “Who still, it seems, gets himself into no little number of troubles.”

Buffy smiled at him. “Except now he goes looking for them, usually.”

“Never did have the best sense.”

Buffy bit her bottom lip and stood. “I’d better go find a sharp knife.”

“Will he be able to eat, like this?”

“It’s instinctual. If I dribble it into his mouth, he’ll swallow.”

“Very well.”

Buffy made to exit the room, pausing to look back at Charles. “You’ll keep an eye on him while I’m gone?”

“I wouldn’t go anywhere else, Miss Elizabeth.” And then she heard softly, as she shut the door, “Wild dogs couldn’t drag me away, old boy.”


	12. Buffy Discovers Keats

“When I have fears that I may cease to be   
   Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,   
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,   
   Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;   
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,   
   Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,   
And think that I may never live to trace   
   Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;   
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,   
   That I shall never look upon thee more,   
Never have relish in the faery power   
   Of unreflecting love—then on the shore   
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think   
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.”

Buffy paused at the bottom of the page, her voice trembling. “Oh, wow,” she murmured. “I get this one, Spike.  _I get it_.” She looked over to the vampire on the bed. Spike lay still, un-breathing, the entire right side of his face swathed in layers of bandages. She touched her left wrist, where her own bandage lay firmly over her vein, ready to be cut open again in a few hours. The aching pain kept her grounded, reminded her that being in pain meant Spike was still alive, that he was still accepting the dribbles of blood down his throat. It was the only time he looked like anything alive, when his Adam’s apple bobbed in time to the flow of her blood. They’d had to supplement with pig’s blood, still. There was no help for it. Charles had nearly had a fit when she’d suggested that she should give any more blood at a time.

“I am aware my knowledge of the Vampire Slayer constitution may be immensely limited, Miss Elizabeth, but I will  _not_  be responsible for telling William why  _you_  are near death and  _he_  is awake. And that is the most optimistic scenario.”

That had stopped her cold in her tracks.

Five days had passed since the surgery, and Spike had yet to stir. Buffy thought she might go mad. So she read instead. Giles and Willow would be so proud of her, she thought dryly.  _Hey, look, guys, it only took watching Spike get half-butchered and in a coma to turn me into read-y gal!_  She had read more poetry to Spike in the last five days than she was certain she’d ever read in her entire life. Even with the poetry class in college, she hadn't exactly kept up with the required reading list. Slaying always seemed to get in the way.

Some of the poems she was reading now made absolutely no sense to her, or seemed ridiculously descriptive ( _I mean, geez, some of these guys could go on about a flower for pages_ ), but – to her immense surprise – she’d found several poets that she liked. Really, really liked.

“This Keats guy,” she said conversationally to Spike’s still form, “he wasn’t much older than me when he died, you know. Back in…” she flipped back through the pages, to the book’s preface. “1821. Expiration date of a Slayer, almost. And none of the nifty abilities. I mean, I don’t know about you, but this consumption thing seems super with the ubersuckage.” She bit her lip, sighing, and closed the book. “Wake up, you stupid vampire, so I can yell at you. Please?”

Finally, she stood, leaving the book next to his bed. She’d continue it tonight, without a doubt.

For all the times in between readings/Spike feedings, when she wasn’t sleeping or eating or otherwise dealing with a living body, she was knee-deep in “Make Buffy Acceptable for Society” preparations. Today’s torture involved about a bazillion pins and one very cranky seamstress.

“Jus’ hold still, Miss!”

“Ow! You did that on purpose!”

“Hold  _still_!”

Buffy huffed, but held still. Her arms were outstretched, like she was auditioning for  _The Sound of Music_ , except she was  _soooo_  not Maria. Even if she had once considered the nun life after Riley’s departure.  _Maybe I should pull a Willow and turn to women,_  she considered.  _Heck, I didn’t even sleep with Spike and I still managed to put him in a coma._  And then, out of nowhere, she began to laugh, loudly and uncontrollably. Out of all the men she’d managed to chase away, even now, Spike wasn’t one of them. The stupid vampire was in a coma. Completely and utterly unwilling to move. She collapsed in gales of hysterical laughter, to the seamstress’s immense distress.

“Miss!  _Really!_ ”

Buffy tried to compose herself, curtailing the hiccupping sobs that had somehow started to escape. “I’m sorry,” she managed between fits. When she had pulled herself together enough, the seamstress continued using her as a pincushion.

She had, Buffy reflected about herself, a really terrible ability to recognize feelings only when the object of said feelings was super with the unavailable. And in this case, she had feelings for Spike. Oh, she had  _loads_  of feelings for Spike. And they ran the gamut from blind rage all the way to kind-of-maybe-being-in-like-with-him. And right now, she wanted nothing more than to yell at his stupid vampire face, and have him make some kind of snarky remark, or piggish remark, or – hey – any kind of remark would do, at this point. She really, really just wanted Spike. The statue laying in his bed was pretty and all, but it was ridiculously quiet. And quiet was about the only thing that Spike was  _not_.

And he was the only one she had left, she thought again, for the bazillionth time. Oh, there was Charles, of course, and weird past versions of the vampire who’d taken her virginity and his crazy-with-a-side-of-fries child… But not a single being who knew Dawn, or dancing at The Bronze, or that headstone with the chipped corner in Restfield (where she’d totally knocked a vamp’s jaw off), or who knew Anya’s penchant for orgasm remarks, or what her mother’s voice sounded like, or… a million other things that were uniquely Sunnydale. A million other things that made up her. Buffy. Slayer.  _So you can’t leave me, Spike,_  she thought again, her daily prayer.  _You can’t leave me to remember Sunnyhell all by myself._

With Spike in a coma, this was the first time she’d truly felt out of place. The first time she’d felt alone. And it was somewhat mindboggling that Spike had managed to prevent that many feelings just by being there. By being Spike.

She was definitely going to punch him in the face when he woke up.

She just wasn’t sure how to keep going until then. She needed to talk to him. To have him tell her she wasn’t going to be stuck in the nineteenth century until the end of her days, some out-of-time Slayer doomed to poor sanitation and bustled dresses until the deathwish she had recently decided to fight came back to take her out for good. Halfrek wasn’t the cause of her death. The vengeance demon didn’t owe her a single glance. Heck, Buffy didn’t even know what Halfrek looked like. She needed Spike to tell her that everything was going to be okay. She needed to talk to him.

And then it hit her. She  _could_  talk to him.


	13. In Which Spike is Going to Kill Her

Spike was going to kill her, Buffy thought as she stood outside William’s townhouse, book in hand. Quaff her brainstem, or whatever it was he had said in the bar. There might’ve been tongue ripping involved somewhere, too.  _Oh, well, have to go some way._  And she rang the doorbell.

A stout, older man answered the door. “Ah, yes, Miss?”

“Uhm. Hello. I’m Bu–Miss Elizabeth Summers, I’m a… friend of Mr. Pratt.” She paused in thought. What had William said to Charles? “I’m so sorry to just barge in, but it’s very important that I see him.”

The man blinked at her with a risen brow. “Please come in.” He allowed her into the entryway and then motioned for her to remain. “Just a moment, please, Miss.” He disappeared to the back of the house.

Buffy stood, shifting from foot to foot, looking around with no small amount of curiosity. So this was where Spike had lived, once upon a time. Huh.

It was, in short, nothing like Charles’s place. The sitting room and drawing room appeared to be a single room, and it looked well lived-in, with a myriad of portraits on the wall, a stack of books in the corner, and bits of sewing laying about in between. A staircase lay directly in front of her, likely the way to bedrooms, and there was a solid wall to her right, lined with coat hooks and an elegant, small table. The kitchen and dining room, she mused, must be in the back, where the butler disappeared to.

It was several minutes later that the door in the back re-opened, and out stepped a well-dressed, older woman, gray hair pulled up into a loose bun. She walked somewhat unsteadily, although her expression was strong, her gaze sharp. She met Buffy with a warm clasp of hands.

“You are a friend of William’s, my dear?”

“Uh, yes.” Buffy flushed. “Actually, I’m a friend of Mr. Delancey’s.”

“Oh!” The woman smiled. “Oh, yes, of course. I thought I recognized your name. You’re the lovely American lady that William mentioned was staying with Charles.”

Buffy beamed, warmth coursing through her. William had called her lovely?

“I’m Anne Pratt,” the woman continued. “William’s mother.”

She blinked. Spike lived with his  _mother_? “Oh,” she managed. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Pratt.”

“Likewise, Miss Summers.” Mrs. Pratt led Buffy to the sitting room (living room?) and took a seat at the chair next to the fireplace, leaving Buffy to place herself on the sofa next to it.

“So tell me, dear, where is it you’re from specifically?”

“Providence,” Buffy said. It was the city she and Spike had agreed on, after some minor tussling. It was recognizable, but not a place Brits were likely to ask questions about, and it fit her accent well enough.

True to expectation, Anne didn’t seem to have anything to say about that. “Oh, how nice. I’ve not been to the Colonies myself, but I hear they’re quite mad dash these days. You Americans, always moving so quickly.” She smiled. “Too quickly for an old woman such as myself.”

Buffy smiled. “You seem quite capable, Mrs. Pratt.”

“You flatter an old woman, dear.”

Buffy bit her bottom lip and glanced around the room. “Will William be joining us?”

“Oh, yes, very shortly. He stepped out to take care of a spot of business. I expect him home any minu–“ Anne stopped abruptly, her breath stilling momentarily before collapsing into a heavy coughing fit. She drew a small bit of handkerchief over her mouth, wincing apologetically. When she moved it away, it was smeared red with blood. Buffy stared at it openly, slack-jawed.

“Mrs. Pratt, do you need me to get a doctor?”

The woman glanced over at her with surprise. It faded into a warm, weary smile. “You’re very kind, Miss Summers, but it’s just a touch of consumption.” A melancholy laugh rippled through her. “These days, I feel the doctor almost lives here, the poor man. William is so worried, you know, if I so much as sit down funny.”

Buffy felt her breath freeze in her chest. Oh god, Spike’s mom was  _dying_. New understanding crashed through her, accompanied by a movie’s worth of memories. Two empty hot chocolate cups by the sink, obviously rinsed, sitting there more times than she could count. The bouquet in her mother’s hospital room that had mysteriously arrived, without a card. The fresh flowers by her mother’s grave, even when she hadn’t been by in days. “Oh, Spike,” she whispered, with something akin to heartache, or gratitude.

“Say again, dear?”

Buffy blinked and met Anne’s eyes. “My mother got very sick last year,” she said softly. “She spent a long time in the hospital. I’m quite certain she never wanted to see another doctor ever again.”

Anne laughed, a tinkling, bell-like sound. “Your mother and I have that in common, Miss Summers!”

Buffy tried to still the dull ache that the present tense inspired. “You do, indeed, Mrs. Pratt.”

It was then that the front door opened and in stepped William. He didn’t notice them for a moment, turning to hang up his overcoat, calling out, “Mother! I’m home!”

From the living room, Anne smiled indulgently. “William, we have a guest.”

William turned abruptly. “Oh! Miss Elizabeth!” He looked at her with baffled surprise, but didn’t seem unpleased. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“I’m in need of your good opinion,” Buffy said slowly, giving his words to Charles back to him.

William’s mouth quirked up in amusement, blue eyes twinkling in a way that let her know he was perfectly aware of what she was up to. He set down his hat on a side table and strode to the living room, taking up the other seat on the sofa, his knees ending up just a foot away from hers. “I am delighted to be of service, Miss Elizabeth.”

Anne smiled a small, knowing smile, and rose from the chair. “I shall let you two converse. I find I am suddenly rather tired.”

William turned to her immediately. “Are you feeling quite alright, Mother?”

“Yes, dear. I simply desire a rest.”

“If you’re sure.”

Anne glanced over a Buffy with pointed amusement. “What did I tell you, Miss Summers? Can’t so much as sit funny.”

Buffy giggled.

William looked between them, baffled then gracious. “I see I have missed some small jest.”

“It’s of little consequence,” Anne said kindly, leaning down to William as she passed, so that he could peck at her cheek. “Miss Summers, it was a pleasure.”

“For me too, Mrs. Pratt.”

Both William and Buffy watched as Anne slowly rose up the stairs. Buffy could see William’s fingers twitch from where they rested on his knees, very obviously itching to support her.

“Your mother is very kind,” Buffy said softly.

William looked back at her, and smiled warmly. “She is the best and kindest of women, Miss Elizabeth. I adore her entirely.” He paused, then straightened, looking attentive and curious. “You say you have a matter that desires an opinion? I admit I do not know that mine will for certain be quite  _good_ , but I shall do my level best.”

“I do, yes. But also… I actually also just wanted your company,” Buffy admitted with a flush.

William’s brows rose. “You did, Miss Elizabeth? Well, that is quite flattering.” He glanced at her shyly, beneath lowered lashes.  _That_  look was a Spike original, apparently. Although William employed it with far more innocence than his vampiric counterpart.

 _Uh oh_ , Buffy thought, internally kicking herself. William could  _not_  think she was eligible. Just no. Who knew what that would do to William’s interactions with Cecily at the party?

“Uh, Charles– I mean Mr. Delancey and I, we have…” God, what was that ridiculous word? Oh! “We have an understanding.”

Far from looking disappointed, William beamed at her. “I had quite suspected, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Oh. Right.” Somehow, that response triggered her feminine vanity. Spike plunged into a hell portal for her, but this guy couldn’t even pretend to be a teeny bit disappointed that she was off the market?

“Charles is quite a lucky fellow,” William continued warmly, soothing her wounded pride. “Is that what you wished to discuss?”

“No, actually,” Buffy said, equally warmly. She pulled out the book she’d had beside her and opened it to the page she’d marked. “I was curious about your opinion of John Keats.” 

*** 

Buffy spent the better part of the afternoon in William’s company, and returned to Charles’s house as the sun began to sink, casting the cityscape into golden relief. William, she now knew, thoroughly admired Keats (to her immense satisfaction), worshipped Percy Shelley, and thought Lord Byron was an over-rated “pompous prat.”

Smiling, she clutched the several borrowed volumes of poetry in her arms, whittled down from the initial half dozen that William had plied on her lap. His enthusiasm was infectious, and he spouted lines of poetry as easily as he did typical speech, peppering every topic with a line or two or ten that perfectly complimented a thought or feeling. The depth of his memory was breathtaking, and in it, she saw the sharp brightness that had always lit Spike’s eyes. The uncanny penchant for perceiving, with perfect clarity, what a situation or a person was about.

 _I think I’ll do some of the sonnets tonight,_  she mused as she made her way to Spike’s room. William had given her an entire volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and marked his favorites. It was a good guess they’d still be Spike’s favorites as well.

Almost at his door, she nodded in passing to one of the maids. Harriet? She frowned. It started with an ‘H’, she was sure. The girl looked at her shyly and fled, glancing toward Spike’s room. The servants had all been informed that Mr. Spike had suffered a blood clot in his brain, and that he was to not be disturbed during recovery. Luckily, the servants had taken Charles’s “retreat to the far end of the estate” remark to heart, and not witnessed the horror movie that had been the kitchen surgery. Still, they all seemed equal mixes of burningly curious and appropriately grave. If they noticed that Spike never needed his bedpan changed, they made no mention of it. Buffy took the liberty of eating the food left outside his door, because Victorian portion sizes? Much with the tiny. Particularly for a girl running on a Slayer metabolism. Even if she wasn’t doing any slaying at the moment. Buffy frowned deeply, and felt her palms twitch. She really, really wanted to slay something. But, between The Scourge and the coma patient that was her slaying partner, it seemed to cross the line from what Spike would call a “bloody stupid idea” and run right into the dark and mountainous cliff that screamed “Deathwish.” And if she gave into  _that_ , Spike would kill her for sure.

Sighing, she pushed open the door to Spike’s room, with a cheery, “How’s our Snow White tonight?”

Charles looked back at her over his shoulder from where he stood by Spike’s bed, blocking her view of the vampire. “Ah, much improved, it seems,” he said with a smile, and shifted.

And there was Spike. He was sitting up, propped up by a half dozen pillows, looking at her with a wearied blue gaze, one eye partially obscured by bandages.

“Hello, cutie.”

A welter of emotions rose in her as she walked to Spike’s bedside and set the books down on his side table, so muddled and overpowering that she couldn’t really pick through them, except to recognize unadulterated relief and bright, burning anger. She couldn’t help it. She hauled off and slugged him in the nose. Hard.

“Bloody hell, woman!”

“You… you  _idiot_!” she screeched at him. And then she fled the room, slamming the door behind her. She heard Charles’s chuckle as she escaped, and the barest bits of him saying, “I believe Miss Elizabeth missed you, William.”

It was almost an hour before Buffy could make herself return to his room, cup of blood in hand as a silent peace offering.

Spike watched her warily, likely expecting she might try to break his nose again. Buffy just set the blood down on his side table and retreated a few steps, giving herself time to look him over. Blue eyes (now with openage). Check. Ridiculous cheekbones. Check. All with the unnecessary breathing. Check. Billy Idol hair. Check? Buffy smiled slightly as she studied the bits of hair uncovered by bandage. Spike’s normally short curls hadn’t quite grown out to William’s length, but they were definitely on their way to rollicking. New growth peeked out from his roots, light brown. Overall, the two-toned look was a little funny, but it didn’t look bad. She sighed. Spike could probably pull off almost any haircut under the sun, the insufferable, good-looking vampire.

Shifting uncomfortably under her gaze, Spike took one swig from the cup and then abruptly set the whole thing down, staring accusingly at her.

“Spike, drink it. You need it.”

“No.”

“I’ll just pour it down your throat if you don’t, because you are  _so_  not wasting that.” She shrugged. “Besides, that’s the last Slayer blood you’re going to be getting for pretty much ever, so enjoy it.”

Spike stared back at her, stony-faced and tight-lipped.

“Damnit, Spike. Drink the damn blood.” Who knew that someday she’d again be demanding that a vampire drink her blood?

He glanced at the cup, then back to her. He looked angry. “Why?”

“Huh? Why what?”

“Why,” he repeated, with a growl, “are you giving me your blood, Slayer?”

“Because, you idiot, we had to have a freaking cow butcher come and saw open your head and take out the Initiative chip. And you were all with the comatose. Not exactly okay, Spike.” Buffy paused, taking a deep breath, and glared at him. “And you are  _not_  leaving me alone in the Victorian Era, asshole.”

Spike stared at her for a long moment, then broke into deep, rumbling laughter. “Couldn’t do that,” he said softly, blue eyes crinkled. “Bloody menace, you are.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s me.”

He drained the rest of the cup then, and used his tongue to lick it clean before passing it back to her. “Powerful stuff, Slayer.”

Buffy eyed the empty cup. “Does it taste good?”

“Like the best sup you can imagine.”

“Huh. Did the Chinese Slayer taste like that?”

Spike tilted his head, considering. She realized that William had made the same movement several times that afternoon, thinking about something she said or something he wanted to say. “No,” he said finally. “Same kind of power, yeah, but didn’t taste like yours.” He smirked. “Yours is the best I’ve ever had, luv.”

Buffy couldn’t help but feel pleased about that. Even if it was, in fact, really gross.

“Well, anyway,” she said, unable to quite meet his eyes, “I’m glad you’re awake.” She let loose a small, hysterical giggle, staring at her feet. “Didn’t know for sure that you would, you know. Wake up, that is. And if you did, we didn’t know when. I’ve been preparing with Charles for the house party still, but I just kept wondering if it was super with the pointless. Which would be really, really annoying, because he’s been worse than Giles about making me do research and stuff. And I’m really glad it’s not.”

“Buffy…”

She looked up, and met impossibly tender blue eyes.

"Thank you,” Spike said softly. “And I’m sorry I scared you.”

She swallowed hard, and bit her bottom lip, half smiling. “Yeah, well, just don’t do it again.”

He grinned at her. “Don’t think that’s possible, unless you shoved in another chip while you were up there.”

Buffy shuddered. “No more chips. Ever.”

Spike stared at her with an unreadable expression.

“What?”

He pursed his lips and looked away. “Never mind. Shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Spike, what are you talking about?”

He sighed and gingerly touched the bandaged side of his head. “Just summat I probably don’t want the answer to, pet.”

“Tell me?”

He leveled a serious gaze on her, jaw clenched. “If you’d had another chip here when this one went mental, and a real surgeon and so on, would you’ve put a new one in?”

 _Oh god._  Buffy paused. Would she have? The answer took less time to find than she thought it might. “No. You’ve been without the chip – at least, functionally – since we got here, and you haven’t been hurting anyone. The chip… it wasn’t right. I won’t be sorry for what it did, since, you know, you  _aren’t_ eating anyone anymore,”  _And we’re kind of sort of friends now? And I would kind of like to kiss you silly?_ “but I wouldn’t do that to you. If you ever went – go – back to eating people, I’d just stake you.”

Spike rewarded her with a pleased, surprised smile. “Fair enough.” His gaze flickered to the books on his nightstand and he frowned. “What’re these?”

“Um, books of poetry?”

He blinked, picking up one of the books and starting to thumb through it. “What for?”

Buffy smiled shyly. “Well, I’ve kind of been reading to you.”

Spike paused and looked up at her, scarred brow risen. “That right?”

She flushed. “Yeah.”

He got an odd smile on his lips then, one that brightened his face immeasurably. His eyes flicked back to the book he’d grabbed. The book of sonnets. Suddenly, he froze, eyes narrowing as he found one of the marked pages. “Buffy,” he said warningly, “why does this look like my handwriting in the margins?”

Oh, boy. “Well, it’s funny really…"

“Buffy…” It was a growl this time.

“Um… because I kinda sorta maybe might’ve gonetoseeWilliam.”

“You  _what_?!” He closed the book with a dangerous snap. “Why in in the  _bloody fuck_  would you have done something like that?”

She clenched her fists. “Because– because you weren’t here! Okay?”

“Because…” Spike repeated, looking taken aback. The anger on his face washed away. “Buffy.”

She fidgeted with the sleeve of her dress. His voice was whispered, almost awed. It sent a terrible shiver down her spine. She chanced a glance at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking at anything, really. His blue eyes were distant, slightly glazed over. Oh god, he hadn’t slipped back into a coma, had he? Buffy touched his arm hesitantly.

“Spike?”

He blinked, looking over at her with an odd expression. “I remember you,” he breathed.

“You– what? Huh?”

Spike held her with a tumultuous blue gaze. “I remember Elizabeth Summers coming to my home.” A shadow crossed his face. “You met my mother.”

“I did.” Buffy bit her lip. “God, Spike, do you know what that means?”

He nodded briefly, sharply. “Yeah.”

“If changes take place in real-time or whatever time – there are way too many times going on here – then we could seriously screw ourselves up.”

Spike ran a hand through his hair, blinking as he encountered the bandage. He sighed and dropped his arm. “All the more reason to get to Halfrek at the party and then get the bloody hell out of here, Slayer.”

Buffy agreed whole-heartedly.


	14. Proof That the PTB Are Assholes

“Well you can shove your ‘bloody’ opinions up your ‘bloody’ ass!”

“Oh, get bent, Slayer!” Spike pointed an enraged finger in her direction. “And your  _bloody_  English is bloody appalling!”

They parted with slamming doors.

It was really hard to say exactly what had started the argument that evening. With Spike up and around and seemingly almost back to normal (he’d taken the bandages off the day before yesterday), they’d gone fully into preparation mode, spending most of the hours chatting about the London social scene or ribbing Charles. The saintly man took them in stride, getting back no fair few of his own jabs. And yet, the one thing they never mentioned, never even hinted at, was the ever-present hum of want that circled them like vultures. Buffy knew Spike could tell. His nostrils flared whenever she came near, ferreting out the scent of her, of the constant wetness between her legs. She didn’t miss the ever-present bulge in his pants, either.

Needless to say, sleep had not been forthcoming in the Land of Buffy the last few nights. She punched her pillow, raging. What  _was_  he doing? Or rather, why wasn’t he doing  _something_? Did she have to hold out a sign that said, “please fuck me”?

“Gah!” She was going to go insane. Buffy sat up, glaring. That was it. She was going slaying. Before she decided that the vampire in the house was the one who needed a wooden chest ornament.

On her way out, she stopped only by Charles’s study. “Charles, I’m going out to slay some baddies. I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?”

He looked at her with a risen brow. “Are you quite sure that’s wise, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Nope.” Buffy smiled grimly. “I know it’s not, in fact. But unless you want an insane Slayer on your hands – which I so totally do not recommend – then this is what’s going to happen.”

Charles just sighed at her. “Do be careful, please.”

“Why, Charles, are you worried?”

Charles gave her a knowing look. “In the few short weeks of our acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth, I have to come to learn much about you. And patience does not seem to be one of the virtues in your possession.”

She shrugged. “Gotta have a trade-off somewhere, I guess.”

“Indeed.” He paused. “Will you not at least take William?”

“Not unless you want me to come back with a pile of dust instead of your friend.”

“I see.” He sighed, sounding very Giles-like. “Then I shall repeat my sentiments of caution.”

“Noted. Caution. Check.” Buffy turned with a cheery wave. “Good night, Charles.”

“Fair hunting, Miss Elizabeth.”

Just stepping outside the house seemed to relieve some of the intense, frantic energy she’d been unable to sap or still the last few days. The night was warm and sticky with July heat, and it soothed her California girl insides.

She thought back to Charles’s farewell with pursed lips.  _It’s not hunting_ , she wanted to tell him,  _it’s slaying._  And that made all the difference. Buffy paused in thought, taking a deep breath. Didn’t it? Although, here she was, in the middle of the night, about to go looking for baddies using the wooden tip of a much unneeded parasol. Then she shrugged. It’s not as if they just dropped in the middle of Charles’s house where she could oh-so-kindly relieve them of their unlives. She had to go to them. But what else could that be called except hunting? Except…except hunting implied she was as much a predator as they were. The ultimate predator, in fact.  _Become a vampire, you've got nothing to fear. Nothing but one girl. That's you, honey._  Spike had told her so, right to her face. To them, she was the boogeyman, the wolf, the ultimate thing of darkness to fear. But that meant, in some very terrible way, that she was no different than they were.  _Wouldn’t do well for the Slayers to know they’re ipso facto hunting their own kind, now would it?_  God, Spike was just chock-full of remembered insight.

She shivered. Her own demon, bound and hunting its own kind. She wondered for a long moment how it felt about that, then realized it probably didn’t care. Demons reveled in violence, in destruction, in killing. And being the Slayer gave it that in spades.  _So my demon is why I want this_ , she considered as she walked. It was a thought that should’ve made her feel better. The demon was driving the need. The demon was causing the frantic, suffocating feeling that came when she went too long without a good fight. The demon needed to feel the thrill of her blood humming in her ears. But that didn’t explain why  _Buffy_  enjoyed it so much. Spike had told her that, too, the night he told her about the other Slayers. It had appalled her, it had disgusted her, it had frightened her. Because it was true. And now, knowing there was a demon in the backseat somehow didn’t make that any better. Spike controlled his demon – and with a level of self-control that should have been impossible, really. But Buffy, she couldn’t even go a couple weeks without killing something.  _But this is what I’m made for,_  she argued with herself.  _Slayer. Chosen. Dusting baddies is kind of in the job description._ But wasn’t killing humans what Spike was made for?

She groaned. Something about the Victorian era was giving her way too many thinky-thoughts.  _Must be the lack of tv_ , she mused _, or the lack of Sunnydale_. She paused. It could  _very_  possibly be the lack of Sunnydale. There was no weekly mini apocalypse or baddie deciding it was his turn to rule the world. Or destroy the world. Or plunge the world into a million years of darkness. Buffy couldn’t decide if she missed it or not. So she shrugged and walked on through the dark streets of London, senses outstretched for the telltale tingling that screamed vampire. That told her, just as a pulse told them, something worth killing was nearby.

It figured, of course, that the very first vampire she’d see that night would be the one she least wanted to. She was near a stable, ironically.  _That’ll teach me to wish vampires were more creative where the PTB could it hear and screw with me_ , she thought wryly.

She turned the corner, parasol tightly in hand, just in time to see a hulking male figure slide the limp body of a woman behind a mound of hay. Before she could open her mouth to make a quipping remark, the man turned. It was Angelus.  _Oh, this is major badness._

He saw her immediately, and his game face dropped into the familiar, cold smirk. “What is it we have here? A wee lass, all run away from her darlin’?”

Buffy swallowed hard and took an unsteady step backward. It was incredibly odd to hear Angelus speak in the lilting brogue of his homeland, but it served the very clear purpose of reminding her exactly who she was dealing with. And exactly who she was not. Memories of Angelus’s exploits – the known ones, anyway – ran through her, with the clinical description that pervaded all Watcher books.  _Slaughtered his entire village, beginning with the brutal massacre of his own familial relations. Raped and tortured a serving girl in front of her father before slaughtering them both. Tortured and slaughtered the wife and son of vampire hunter William Holtz. Raped and slaughtered a convent of nuns. Tortured the woman Drusilla (see vampire entry: Drusilla) to the point of insanity and then turned her to ensure her everlasting torment._  It went on and on and on. And that was discounting the havoc he would someday wreak in Sunnydale. The worst of it was, she couldn’t even kill him. Buffy took another step back.

Angelus stepped toward her, dark hair shadowing his face. “Lass, you give me the frissons.” He continued his slow advance, eyes gone to gold. “It’s like this terrible itch between my shoulder blades.”

Buffy opened her mouth to retort _, Yeah, and you give me the creeps_ , but then – in an unexpected moment of Buffy brilliance – snapped her mouth shut. Angelus didn’t know what she sounded like. The worst thing she could do was provide more sensory information that might make royal screwage of their past. Or was it technically the future?  _Ugh, time travel is so with the confusing_. So she held her tongue.

And then another thought struck her. Angelus was obviously getting Slayer tinglies, only he didn’t know what they were. Thank the PTB for small mercies. The bastards.

Buffy continued backing away slowly, Angelus following lazily, like a smug cat.  _Not good,_  she thought.  _If I fight him, he’ll know. He’ll know I’m not just Spike’s steady meal._  And that could ruin everything. Buffy or Spike might not even exist. Was it better just to let him kill her? To embrace her spectral deathwish with open arms, and die in the murderous embrace of her first love?  _Ugh, that is way too much with the twisted Romeo and Juliet._  But did she really have any other choice? Buffy gripped the parasol more tightly. The vampire warning on the back of her neck got worse and Buffy halted.  _Oh god, who else is here?_

And then Drusilla appeared from the shadows and looped her in arm in Buffy’s, as if they were good friends. The grip was like iron.

“Sunshine is out of time,” she said slowly, with a disapproving tsk.

Angelus laughed harshly. It sounded like someone stepped on a panting dog. “That she is, Dru.”

Drusilla’s gaze snapped to his, narrow-eyed, and her grip on Buffy tightened. Buffy winced hard, the parasol clattering loose to the ground.  _Damnit. Well, I’m doubly dead now,_  she thought.  _Either by tweedle dee or tweedle dum. Doesn’t really matter which, I guess._  “It’s bad manners to take the sunshine out of turn,” Drusilla said sharply, and Buffy stared at her. “This one does not belong to us.”

Angelus frowned at her, clearly annoyed. “If that sorry excuse for a Master wanted to keep her, he should’ve put his toy on a leash, like any respectable vampire.” He turned a chilling leer on Buffy. She remembered that smirk. He’d had the same one the morning after he’d taken her virginity.

The back of Buffy’s neck tingled again, signaling the arrival of yet another vampire. Great. This was just getting better and better.  _And I’m_ , she thought dryly,  _getting deader and deader._

Then Spike’s voice sounded from behind her, low and hard. “What part of  _mine_  didn’t you get, mate?”

Dru clapped her hands together with a squeal of delight and whirled, tugging Buffy with her. She smiled deviously, conspiratorially at Buffy. “Knight of the night comes to collect the Queen.” And then she shoved Buffy at him, sending the Slayer face forward into Spike’s chest. Buffy clung to him. Hardly daring to breathe, she peeked back over her shoulder.

“Until our feast of tears and fishes. Goodbye! Goodbye!” Dru exclaimed cheerfully, then skipped over to a very confused and irritated Angelus and tugged at him. “Come, daddy. The Knight will not play with you. Let us find something else tasty to eat.”

Angelus growled lowly, eyes narrowed. “You’re not worth the trouble,” he said finally, and Buffy wasn’t sure if he meant her, Spike, or them both together. Turning, he let himself be drawn away by Drusilla’s insistent arm.

Buffy held herself still as her vampiric sense of them faded into nothing, and then turned forward again, burying her face in Spike’s shirt. He was breathing, the ridiculous vampire, and heavily. Probably not of the good, for her. He also reeked of whisky and cigarette smoke. Well,  _that_  was definitely mas bad. She was dealing with some level of Drunk Spike, and this version didn’t seem like he was about to spout poetry. This version might actually try to rip out her throat. And she probably deserved it.

For a long moment neither of them moved, and then Buffy lifted her head with a held breath. Spike was staring down at her, in game face. His golden eyes were unblinking, hard, and cold. His mouth was a thin, angry line. Yep, probably going to try and rip her throat out.

“Spike… I’m sorry… I–”

His mouth slammed into hers, bruisingly hard, and his arms wrapped around her so tightly she thought he might crack a rib. He was still in game face, and the points of his fangs ripped through the soft flesh of her lips without regard, sharp and stinging. She gasped from the pain and he again invaded her mouth, sending equal jolts of hurt and pleasure coursing through her as he dominated her tongue. And that was exactly what he was doing. Dominating. An unexpected pang of desire pooled low in her belly, and  _god_  did that make her angry.

Buffy shoved him away with all the strength she could muster and sent him stumbling backward. Spike’s golden eyes locked on hers, and he snarled. His mouth was smeared red with her blood.

“What  _is_  it with you! What, you can only kiss me when you’re three sheets to the freaking wind and pissed off? Way to give a girl a complex!”

“I only kiss you when I’m sloshed and brassed, Slayer,” he growled, stalking toward her again, “because when I’m sober, I’m smart enough to remember that I’m risking my sodding unlife whenever I reach for you!”

They both reacted at the same time:   
“I wouldn’t stake you!” “Wait, you  _want_ me to kiss you?!”

They stared at one another, panting. And then Spike yanked her to him again, face shifting abruptly to his human guise. Somehow, this face was even hungrier, and his blue eyes were burningly bright. She felt him tremble as he held her. “I'm gonna kiss you now, Slayer.”

Buffy gave him a look, swallowing hard. “What, and risk your stupid unlife?”

Spike grabbed the back of her neck with a rough hand and pulled her breathtakingly close, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers. The cool air from his open mouth made her quiver. “It’ll bloody well be worth it,” he growled. And then he captured her mouth again.

And,  _oh god_ , this was the kiss she’d been craving. The one she’d imagined as she fell to helpless spasms alone in her bed. The one she’d been wet for days for. The one she never knew could really be _that_  good.

Spike’s mouth was almost gentle as he pressed it to hers, as if apologizing for the earlier ruin he’d made of her lips, but his body was unyieldingly hard, and he ground his erection into her center mercilessly. Buffy tangled her arms around his neck and wove her fingers through his hair with a sharp moan, every nerve coming alive with clamoring, unrelenting want.

And then he was licking her lips. Actually  _licking_  them. Which should have been incredibly weird but was instead potentially the most erotic thing to ever happen to her. The skin tingled where his tongue had been, dispelling the lingering pain, and her body heated like live coals, turning to jelly.

“Spike…”

He abandoned her mouth abruptly and drew a swath of aching kisses across her jaw and downward. She felt him growl as he reached the top of her dress collar, which unfortunately covered most of her neck.

“Just rip it,” she demanded hoarsely.

“No.” Spike pulled back slightly and looked at her. His blue eyes were dark with lust, his expression heavy with it and something else she couldn’t quite place. “Not like this, Buffy.” He released her from his grip to her protesting cry and instead took her hand. “Run.”

They ran the entire way back to Charles’s house, not caring who might see them, pushing themselves to the limits of their powers, unwilling to waste even a moment. Somehow, they managed not to rip each other’s clothes off before reaching Spike’s room. Buffy just kept chanting,  _Victorian Era. Not time appropriate. Don’t scar the servants for life,_  over and over again. She wasn’t sure how Spike managed it.

Once his door was shut and locked, all bets were off. Spike slammed her against the door frame, hands plucking at her dress. “Bloody fucking buttons,” he growled, tugging the tent of fabric from her finally. Then he blinked at her. “Christ, I forgot how many layers you chits wear.”

Buffy huffed and began ripping them off. “Not exactly my idea, Mr. I’m-Going-To-Drag-Us-Back-To-1880.”

He smirked at her and helped her out of the last of her underthings. “You love it.”

“Oh shut up and screw me already.”

Those were apparently the magic words. Spike grabbed her under her arms and threw her on the bed. He paused only a moment to stare at her, taking a deep, unneeded breath. "Christ, Buffy, you're magnificent."

She squirmed in discomfort and held up her arms. "Get over here. Now."

He smirked at her and stripped off his clothes in short order. And whoa. He was  _so_  going to need to do that again later. Much,  _much_  more slowly. No wonder Drusilla had strung him along for a century. This was a body worth holding onto. Spike was a lean man, but definitely not scrawny. He was, she mused, built like a dancer, all rippling muscle and clean, fluid lines. Or maybe he was more like a Greek statue, all pale skin and perfect chiseling. Maybe he was both. Her eyes drew down his body hungrily, flushing as she reached his member.  _Geez, I guess that really wasn't just ego talking._

Spike crawled toward her on the bed, his eyes lit up in a knowing leer. "Like what you see, Slayer?"

"Maybe," she hedged, the breathlessness of her voice betraying her.

He smirked and ran a hand down to grasp his very hard cock. Buffy gasped, knowing her heart rate had shot through the roof. "If you're good," he paused thoughtfully, "or very, very bad, I might let you touch."

Buffy huffed at him. "You wish."

He only grinned more widely and came up to her, covering her with his body. Her legs were quivering of their own accord, her muscles taut as a bowstring. "Gonna make you scream," he whispered in her ear, his cool breath sending shivers through her like lightning.

"Guh."

He took her breasts, one in each hand, and massaged them slowly, trailing down her throat with deep, heavy kisses. She grabbed his ass, pulling his closer, and ground herself into him helplessly. She heard him chuckle against her skin as he continued his slow, torturous route down her body. His lips found her nipples and he bit them lightly, using his tongue in a lazy, swirling motion. Pleasure exploded through her like a tidal wave until she was just a bit of jetsam (flotsam? Who even knew the difference?) caught in the current, swallowed by it.

"Oh god." Then, without warning, Spike broke from her and held himself still, a dark shadow above her body. Buffy thought she might scream. “ _Spiiike_.”

He stared down at her, panting harshly. “Want to savor this.”

“Next time,” she growled, and pulled him back down to her breasts.

She could feel his smirk. “Next time,” he agreed, with a purr.

He continued his devastating path down her body, covering her with heavy, damning kisses down her torso and up her thighs, never touching the parts she wanted most.

“Damnit, Spike!”

He looked up at her innocently from where he had been kissing her inner thigh. “You wanted something, Slayer?”

She gasped in outrage. “You’re a bastard.”

“That’s not very nice,” he said reprovingly, with a fake pout. “My mum was a lady.”

Buffy growled at him, pushing her fists helplessly into the mattress. “Just touch me!”

He smirked at her and kissed down her thigh, toward her knee. When he reached the joint, he looked up wickedly. “Like that?”

“ _I am going to murder you._ ”

He chuckled lowly, and the sound made her shiver helplessly. “Tell me what you want, Buffy.”

She moaned, bucking against him, nearly about to come apart. Desire won out over her embarrassment and she gasped, “Suck my clit, Spike.  _Please_.”

Spike's eyes darkened to nearly black. “Christ,” he swore, and dipped his face into her soaking mound. She really did scream then, as his tongue lathed her clit in fast, swirling strokes, and he plunged his fingers inside her rhythmically, in and out.

“Spike!  _Oh god_!”

He grunted at her, and she knew he was almost as bad off as she was. She tried to pull him up to her, but he staunchly ignored her, nipping at her clit. With a startled exclamation, the heat pooling in her belly turned into a raging inferno. It consumed her with violent, blinding spasms and pushed her right over the edge, her vision whiting out. Spike moaned as she spilled greedily into his mouth.

“Buffy,” he groaned as he lapped her up, “you taste so good. So fucking good.”

“Ungh,” she managed, spasms still rocketing through her deafeningly.

And then Spike had himself level with her and his cock was nudging at her sopping entrance.

“Please,” she whispered, breath shuddering through her.

He plunged into her without further preamble, and they both cried out. He filled her to the brim, so fully and completely that Buffy thought she really, really might die from the sensation. Spike was positioned, unmoving, in her, his breath coming in a strangled moan.

“ _Fuck_ , Buffy,” he rasped. “You’re so hot. So bloody hot.”

He began to move and Buffy whimpered, thrashing.  _Oh screw the body_ , she thought desperately, through a white haze.  _With the way he fucks, who even_ needs  _good looks?_  It was, she determined through harsh cries as he fucked her in deep, even strokes, just a gigantic unnecessary bonus.

And then he was pounding her into the mattress, his cock hitting some place deep inside her that made her nearly lose her mind.

“Spike! Oh god,  _Spike_!” She came again, in rippling coursing, waves, clenching violently against his cock.

Spike jerked against her with a strangled cry as he came and then collapsed, heaving deep, harsh breaths against her.

Neither of them moved for a long moment, and then Spike groaned and rolled off her, to the side. He stared at her silently, looking equally smug and awed.

Buffy found her tongue first, after several attempts. "How– how did you find me?" It came out hoarse and unsteady.

Spike snorted, burying his face against her breasts. "Charles."

"That snitch!"

Spike raised his head and held her with a serious, stern gaze. "Don't think I forgot what mess I walked in on, Slayer."

Buffy flushed. "I'm sorry," she said meekly. "I just... I needed to kill something or screw someone, and you weren't exactly jumping my bones."

"Oi!" He glared at her. "Didn't exactly think you wanted me to."

"I know you could smell me, you stupid vampire."

His expression grew sheepish. "Just thought you were lonesome. Didn't expect it was for me." He brushed away a strand of hair from her face, looking fully awed now. "Didn't think you'd ever want me, Buffy."

She swallowed hard, a flush rising up her cheeks. "Yeah, well, I do. Okay?"

He smirked, tongue curling behind his teeth, and trailed a cool hand up her thigh. "No complaints here, luv." He leaned down and kissed her nipples each in turn, slowly, reverently. "God, Buffy, what you do to me."

"Guh."

Buffy felt his brow furrow then and he looked back up at her.

"No stopping," she pouted. She wasn’t sure she could survive another round. But she really didn’t care.

Spike just gazed at her, uncertainty drawing a shadow down his face. "Buffy..."

She frowned at him. "What?"

He took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. "Is this it?" he asked. His voice was quiet, determined.

"Is this it for what?"

"For us."

She shook her head at him in annoyance. "You are so not with the sense-making right now."

She could feel his muscles tense, saw the resolve flash in his eyes. "Are you going to kick me out in the morning?" He demanded. "I don't expect... expect this to last, but, Chrissake, can you at least give a bloke some warning? This is...  _bloody hell_ , Buffy, I've been dreaming about this for ages. And I..." He looked away, a muscle in his jaw ticking wildly.

Buffy just stared at him. He thought she was going use him tonight and then want nothing to do with him in the morning? Geez, what kind of a ho did he take her for? Then shame flooded through her. Had she really given him any reason to believe otherwise? She'd told him that she wanted him, but that didn't really mean he was anything more than a convenient way to relieve some tension. Something hurt in her breast with the thought. He wasn't that, she told herself fiercely.

"Spike," she said softly, and placed a hand on his jaw, drawing him back to her. He looked at her with a shielded, resigned gaze. "Barring the fact that is  _your_  room, idiot, I'm not going to... to suddenly come to my senses in the morning."

He drew away from her, looking suddenly angry. "Glad to hear that, Slayer," he told her sharply.

Buffy blinked.  _Oh, for all the..._  "Spike. I didn't mean it that way."

"Yeah? Well what bloody way did you mean it then?"

She sighed and tugged at him, running comforting hands down his chest. He really did have a chest like marble. That was so unfair. "I meant that there's nothing to come to my senses to. I'm already there. I'm sense-full Buffy. All with the good decision-making."

Spike's expression softened, hope lighting his eyes. "That so."

"Yep."

He swallowed hard and gazed at her with eyes so full of emotion it almost blinded. "Buffy, I know you don't... don't love me, but... bollocks." He drew a frustrated hand through his hair, then looked at her again. "But this is more than I ever... thank you."

She kissed him slowly, gently, and felt him harden against her. "Geez, do you raise that on command?"

He smirked at her. "Just likes you, luv."

"Pig."

"You love it."

She bit her lip. "Do you love me, Spike?"

He looked at her helplessly. "You know I do."

"You haven't said it in a long time."

He gave her a curious look. "Wasn't aware it was a desired phrase, Slayer. Seem to remember you disinviting me, the first time I said so."

"Um, you also chained me up and threatened to feed me to your ex, you psycho."

"Not m'best decision," he admitted.

"You think?"

He shrugged. "Can't take it back now, can I?"

"Would you have?"

He looked at her, irritated. "What? Take back getting sodding punched and rejected, Slayer? Of course I'd take it back." He mumbled something then that she didn't quite catch.

"Huh?"

He looked at her, clearly embarrassed. "Might've done worse, you know."

"I'm not sure what you could have done that could  _possibly_  have been worse, Spike."

He swallowed, chuckling nervously. "Might've written you a poem."

Buffy blinked. "You wrote... you wrote me poetry?"

He looked away from her, clearly unhappy. "Not saying I did, Slayer."

She grinned at him. "You did!"

"Just leave it be, yeah?"

"Oh, nooo way, Spike. Do you remember it? Can you recite it from memory?"

He glared at her. "What? So you can make fun? No sodding thanks."

Buffy's smile faded, and she held his eyes seriously. "I wouldn't do that."

Spike stared at her defiantly, something dark and angry hidden in his eyes. "I'm a bloody awful poet, Buffy."

She made a small noise of disbelief. "I seriously doubt that. I know you remember my visit with William... with you. You are seriously like a walking poetry anthology."

He frowned, but his eyes softened somewhat. "Doesn't mean I can write, pet. Write well, that is," he amended.

"Maybe not, but it's something you made. I wouldn't make fun of you for that." Then she cringed internally. Oh god, if he had recited that to her back then, she most definitely would have. Probably laughed right in his face and  _then_  punched him in the nose. The realization made her stomach ache uncomfortably.

He looked at her for a long moment, likely thinking the same thing she was. Then something twisted in his expression that she didn't understand. "No."

"Please?"

" _No_."

She sighed. "Fine. Someday, will you recite it to me? Or at least let me read it?"

"No promises, Slayer."

Buffy shrugged and let it drop, knowing that was likely the best agreement she'd get. She drew a soft hand down his cheekbone, and he leaned into her, eyes half closing with a sigh. "I think I figured it out, Spike."

He frowned at her, blue eyes blinking open warily. "Figured what?"

"What it is about you that brought us to the past."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Your heart."

Spike stared at her, slack-jawed.

She smiled weakly. "It took me way too long to get it, actually. I mean, geez, you've been Love's Bitch since I've known you. You've done more in the name of love – and totally did not mean to sound like a stupid song there – in the name of love than most people could ever hope to."

He snorted. "Being Love's Bitch hasn't exactly been roses, Slayer. Point of fact, think it's been a right pain in my arse."

"Maybe so. But it's something incredibly... human." She bit her lip. "You're way more like William than I could have guessed. Way more than I wanted to think. Charles told me you were, right after I met him, but I didn't believe it."

He bristled. "I'm not a bleeding nancy boy."

"William's not a 'nancy boy', Spike."

He scoffed at her. "If he was any wetter, he'd be dripping on the floor."

"I think he's sweet."

Spike gaped at her. "You... you do?" His voice was tremulous.

"Yep." She popped the 'p' purposefully, and took Spike's face in her hands, keeping him from any escape. "And I'm so sorry for whatever happened – whatever is going to happen – that made him go into hiding. He's a good man."

Spike's face crumpled into something incredibly tender and awed. "Buffy..."

"Shh." She kissed him again, tender and soft. "Just... be with me, right now?"

He swallowed hard. "Wild dogs couldn't drag me off."

Buffy paused and gave him an odd look. "Charles said that, not too long ago. About you, when you were in a coma."

Spike chuckled. "Bloody tosser. Stealing my lines."

"Think it's the other way around?"

"Not a chance," he said, grinning, and then abruptly caught her in his arms and lowered himself on top of her again. "Now, hush your pretty lil mouth, Slayer, or I'm going to fill it with summat."

She grinned at him wickedly. "Promise?"

Spike growled at her and swept her up in a burning, fierce kiss that wiped all other thoughts away.


	15. Party Day

Somehow, it was party day before she knew it. Buffy woke with a start in Spike’s arms, the vampire wrapped around her like a cool, clinging blanket. He was also purring. The first few nights, it had amused her so much that she started laughing. Spike had woken up and glared at her with a sleepy "sod off" and then gone right back to sleep. Only to start purring again. Vampires, she had decided, were the cats of the demon world. And the more she thought about it, the truer it seemed. Liked to play with their food. Check. Ridiculously beautiful predators. Check. Moody, unpredictable, and randomly broody. Check, check, and check. Buffy didn’t think Spike would find her revelation nearly as interesting (or funny) as she did, however, so she kept it to herself, fully intending to share it with Charles when the moment presented itself.

Charles, however, had been insufferable to be around lately. The morning after Buffy and Spike first took to bed, Charles had met them at breakfast with a newspaper and a solemn good morning and then casually asked if someone had been murdered the previous evening.

Buffy and Spike traded glances and Spike shrugged. “Big city, Charlie-boy.”

“No, I quite mean in this house.”

Buffy flushed red immediately. “Charles.”

He flashed her a mischievous grin. “I say, it’s quite a thing to be roused in the middle of the night by a terrified servant who is convinced there’s a lady being murdered in Mr. Spike’s room.”

Spike’s fork clattered to the table. “Christ, Charlie.”

“Oh, not to worry, I assured the poor girl that all was well. She’s new, and quite young. The others are familiar enough with my own exploits not to worry about such noises. Or, of course, have been involved in their own.”

Buffy wanted to melt into the table. “Can we not talk about this, ever?”

Charles fixed an innocent gaze on her and took a slow sip of tea. “Now where, Miss Elizabeth, would be the fun in that?”

Absolutely insufferable.

Not that it had stopped Buffy from knocking on Spike’s door the next night, or all the nights following that.

The third night, he had laughed at her. Actually laughed at her. “S’barely sunset, pet. Never gonna give me the chance to come to your pretty bed, are you?”

Buffy bit her lip. “Mine is closer to Charles’s room.”

“Your bed is a bloody disgrace.”

For nearly a week, Buffy forgot about slaying. Well, not  _forgot_ , exactly. But both the Buffy and Slayer halves of herself were quite happily entertained in other, sometimes horizontal, directions. There was a silently acknowledged frenzy to the affair, an unbearable need to explore each other in every way possible and as many times as possible, before the end. Because that, it seemed, was what the return to Sunnydale had become. At least, Buffy knew that’s what Spike thought. He would stare at her intently when he thought she wasn’t looking, pained longing etched into every edge of his face. Staring as if he was willing that moment to be fixed into memory, ready for a time in the not-so-far future when that’s all he would have left.

For her part, Buffy didn’t know what to say.  _I won’t abandon you just because we’re back in Sunnydale?_   _I really care about you and love every single thing you make my body feel (even when I’m so mad at you I want to punch your face in)?_ But they both knew that the return to Sunnydale meant the return of a very set-in-stone kind of reality, paired with years of bias and attempted killings. Any continued liaison would be a struggle, at best, and it likely meant an argument with every single one of the Scoobies and a certain hard-nosed Watcher. And that was a daunting, wearying prospect. Shame filled her every time she thought it. But still, she thought it. And Spike knew she thought it.

So they both said nothing at all.

Instead, Spike memorized every angle of her body. Instead, Buffy came to his room every night and poured every ounce of tenderness into her touch that she could find.

So waking up to the day of the party, to the last day, to the beginning of the end, Buffy wanted to go right back to sleep.  _If I close my eyes, will it be three nights ago?_  Three nights ago, Spike had let her tie his wrists to the headboard as she rode his cock like a bucking horse.  _Two nights ago?_  Two nights ago, Spike had fucked her from behind and then eaten out her quim (his word) until she screamed.  _Even last night?_  Last night, the last night before the last day, the last night before the beginning of the end, they had practically consumed one another. She was still wearing a multitude of bruises and blunt teeth marks from it this morning. The last time – when they both knew their endurance was failing – Spike had fucked her from the front, his blue eyes never once leaving hers, his cock plunging in as deeply as it was possible to go. He never once rammed into her, never once hurried his movements. Never once let go of her hands. She came while staring into impossibly blue eyes, her fingers threaded through his above her head in a strong, caressing grip. It was the most intimate experience of her life.

And now it was morning. And Buffy hated it.  _Stupid sun. Couldn’t you wait just a few more hours?_  She gazed at the vampire tangled in her arms. They had slept face-to-face last night, each one daring the other in some silent argument to be the first one to fall asleep. To end their last evening. So much silence, it had been deafening. Buffy paused in thought. Had they said a single word aloud that entire night? She knew Spike was waiting for  _her_  to say something. To tell him it was over. To tell him that she’d fight for him (she knew he didn’t really expect that one). Waiting for her. Letting her decide.  _And you, you coward, you didn’t say anything at all._ She couldn’t even muster the strength to let him go properly. Because, really, it was the very last thing she wanted to do. And, god, wasn’t that the most terrifying thought in existence?  _It never ends well,_ she told herself.  _They always leave._  If she never really claimed him, would he stay?

Sighing, Buffy ran a questing hand through Spike’s curls. They were so soft, and very fully two-toned now, halfway as long as William’s. He mumbled against her hand, but didn’t wake.

“I’m so afraid,” she whispered, stroking his cheek. “And I can’t tell you. But you’re the only person I want to tell.”

Afraid of what, she wasn’t quite sure. At least in a way that made sense in sounds. Spike would help her make sense of it, of the tumult of emotions and worries and thoughts that crowded her like a bad night at The Bronze:

The gripping panic that she’d gained something incredibly precious by living a century in the past, and that going home meant having to give it all up, or compromise it, or defend it. And that doing so in any increment would taint it. Leave her less. Leave her lost.

The deep, uncompromising fury that she’d finally felt at peace in the only place that wasn’t home. That she’d have to go back to weekly apocalypses in a place that would keep them coming until she died (again). That no one in Sunnydale could ever know or understand who she was as well as the impossible vampire laying next to her.

The all-consuming warmth for a month out of time. For a man who had welcomed her into his home and become friend, conspirator, and confidant, all in a matter of weeks. For the way London felt at night, all sticky heat, clattering horse hooves, and slick cobblestones. For a man who teemed with poetry, who showed her how a place of vibrant colors and motion and feeling could exist in ink and paper, or in spoken words, or unspoken ones.

Yes, Spike could make sense of it all. He’d call her a daft bird, or a silly chit, and then say – in a few sentences, at most – something that made perfect, obvious sense. Something that would ease the knots in her throat without seeming to try at all. And perhaps  _that_  was the strangest emotion of all. Only she wasn’t even sure that one had a name. Was it gratitude? Was it affection? Was it –  _No._  Buffy halted her thoughts desperately.  _No, I can’t._   _Not today, not now. Not when everything is coming to an end._  But stopping the thought didn’t change it.

Sighing heavily, Buffy listened to the servants chattering in the halls as they passed, one girl giving a peal of excited laughter just outside the door as she and the others made their way to their early morning tasks. They – more than the dark curtained space where Buffy lay – were the harbingers of morning. In Spike’s room, where only the barest of gray light filtered in, it was easy to pretend that night still held sway.

It  _was_ the last morning, though, and it seemed a shame to waste it. It was all they had left, after all.

Buffy swept a gentle hand across Spike’s chest, eliciting a soft moan and the bare edges of a smile from his sleeping form. He was so beautiful, she thought for the gazillionth time. More beautiful than he had any right to be, really. She’d thought it from the first, when they were nothing more complicated than mortal enemies. But it had manifested in a “wow, he’s pretty for an undead killer” kind of way – all hardness and angles and hate. Now, looking at the vampire beside her, she saw the soft corners of his mouth, the gentle slope of his brow, the eyes that – when opened – could express a level of tenderness that took her breath away. She knew now, intimately, that he was both William and Spike, just as she was Buffy and Slayer. But whenever she opened her mouth to say all those things to him, the reality of Buffy and word unmixiness always set in.

What, she wondered, could she possibly give him on this last morning, to tell him how precious he’d become to her. To tell him she was grateful for everything he had given her, shown her, returned to her. All those little pieces of Buffy that her expiration date had been slowing stealing through the years – the laughter, the ease, the warmth – he had returned to her, with interest.

“I don’t have your way with words, Spike,” she murmured softly. “Not a feature of Buffy. Didn’t get that upgrade. Slay and quip, that’s me. You may be a poor poet – and definitely not convinced there, buster, guess you’ll have to read me something so I can decide – but… I’m no poet at all.”

And then it struck her. She  _could_  write her own poem to Spike, not from words, but from her lips and tongue and hands. It was, she realized with a pang, exactly what  _he’d_  already been doing this past week. She’d been contributing verses, sure, but nothing formatted, nothing nuanced or rhymed or metered.

So this morning, the morning before the end, she could recite him a poem.

Buffy slid a low, steady hand down his waist, lingering at the curves of his hips. She sent her lips to caress his neck, her tongue flicking to the globes of his ears and biting gently.

Spike gave a small, waking gasp at her ministrations, blue eyes blinking open. “Buffy?” His voice was rough with sleep, low with the edges of lust.

“Shh,” she said against his ear. She felt him shiver. “I’m reciting you a poem, idiot.” She leaned back so he could see her face and pouted dramatically. “No interrupting.”

His blue eyes twinkled at her in bemused delight, and he obediently snapped his mouth shut.

She grinned. “Now where was I?”  _Oh yes, telling him he’s beautiful._  And she bit his ear again, harder. He hissed, swallowing roughly. Then she kissed down his neck with soft, pressing movements, lingering on the joint between his neck and shoulder where twin scars rested – his siring marks. She laved her tongue over them and he moaned loudly. “Fuck, Buffy.”

“Shh.” She paused, considering. How to tell him she admired his strength?  _Oh, yes, that will do._ She nuzzled his neck one last time, then promptly lowered herself to his chest, and rubbed his nipples between her forefingers, licking them each slowly. He groaned and bucked against her. She grinned against his skin. Oh this was  _fun_. Way better than speaking.

Buffy nibbled her way down his abdomen, ignoring his sharp, unneeded breaths. His cock was standing straight up. Spike had put his hands to his side, clenched into fists, and she could see the veins in his arms jutting out with the strain to keep himself still.

She decided to tell him how much she adored William by playfully circling Spike’s cock with her tongue, never quite touching. When he seemed about to break, she bit the inside of his thigh and he bucked upward violently, coming off the bed. “ _Bloody fuck_!”

Buffy pulled away until he had himself under control. He was looking at her now, blue eyes tinged with gold, face sheened with lust. “Buffy.”

“Shh! Not done yet,” she said imperiously.

Spike collapsed back on the bed with a cry of frustration.

Buffy stifled a giggle and considered his cock seriously. It was a beautiful cock, as far as they went. It stood straight to attention at the moment, twitching, as Spike’s borrowed blood flowed into it. A small nest of light brown hair nestled at the base and thinned to smooth skin near his balls. She took his balls in her hand and rolled them loosely. Spike’s breath grew sharper.

 _And this is how I tell you I might be in love with you_ , she thought quietly. And then licked from the base of his cock to the tip. Spike let out a strangled cry, and thrust toward her. She waited again until he was still and then took all of him into her mouth that she could, putting her free hand into a tight grip at his base. And then she pumped him rhythmically, punctuating each stroke with a flick of her tongue. It was, she decided, oddly like fighting. Oddly like dancing.

Spike had started up a ceaseless dialogue now, and she didn’t bother to stop him. “Christ, Buffy. Oh fuck! So hot. Oh god, your mouth. So bloody hot. Fuck, pet.  _Fuck_!”

Buffy continued to pump him slowly, twisting her mouth side to side when she felt like it, to his sharp intakes of breath. It was something she loved about him. The way he expressed every emotion clearly, vocally. There was never a question of whether he enjoyed her blowjob, for example. Instead, he seemed continually grateful, awed. There was no hint of his usual swagger or defiance when her mouth was wrapped around his cock. Just full and unconditional submission. It made her feel incredibly powerful in a way she’d never felt with a man before. She’d barely even  _seen_  Angel’s cock when they’d made love. It had been dark and she’d been nearly too embarrassed to look, too full of nerves about the thought that he was going to be  _inside_  her. Parker had made her suck him off partially to get hard before they’d fucked, and that had been annoying at best and demeaning at worst. She’d given Riley plenty of blowjobs. And Riley had been appropriately thankful, but he’d never made her feel better because of it. Never made her feel like she was the center of his universe in that moment, and the flick of her tongue would determine in which of a thousand ways he would lose his mind. Not in the way Spike did.

Buffy continued stroking Spike in time to the bobbing of her mouth, humming with pleasure. His words devolved into gasping cries until he sucked in a warning breath and thrust forward uncontrolled with a deep, helpless shout. He spilled into her mouth in a thick, cool wave and she swallowed him down before kissing the head of his shaft and giving it one last cleansing lick. Spike shuddered at her touch and then reached down and hauled her up to him, panting. Buffy snuggled into the crook of his shoulder as he reigned in his breath.

Finally, he looked over at her, blue eyes dark and stunned. “You are a bloody brilliant poet,” he rasped.

Buffy giggled, then bit her lip shyly. “Had a good subject.”

He brushed her hair away from her face with a trembling hand. “That so.”

“Mhmm.”

“Christ, Buffy. Never… never…” He swallowed roughly and glanced away.

She watched him, curious. “Never what?”

His eyes flickered to her uncertainly. “Never been made love to like that before,” he said finally, incredibly quietly.

Buffy held her breath, her heart thumping in her chest. He’d understood her poem, then. At least partially.  _Of course_  he had. It was Spike after all. But did he know what she was trying to say – really trying to say? “Oh, come on. You were with Drusilla for a hundred years. You’re saying she never gave you a blowjob?”

His eyes blinked shut, jaw tensing. “Not like that. Alright?”

Buffy wasn’t sure if it was outrage or sympathy or disgust that filled her. Maybe all three. All for the fact that Spike – the self-proclaimed Love’s Bitch, the vampire unable to  _not_  love – had somehow never even been made love to properly in over a century. God, had Drusilla been too heartless or just too crazy to have ever given him even that shred of tenderness?

“I’ll take that as a compliment then,” Buffy said finally, far too perkily.

Spike smiled wanly, blue eyes staring at the ceiling. Then he rolled over to the edge of the bed, and stood up, beginning to gather his clothes. “Best get a move on, luv. Busy day.”

Buffy frowned. He hadn’t understood then, not really. And she was too cowardly to try to tell him again. She sat up. “Right. Busy day. Can’t be late for the future.”

They dressed in silence.


	16. Holy Bustles, Batman!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With scene and dialogue from S5.7 Fool for Love. 
> 
> Sidenote: while it may have seemed previously that Halfrek is following the plot line in Spike: Old Times, that non-canonical piece is not in play here, so… don’t be surprised when it doesn’t follow it :)

“Tell me again, Slayer.”

Buffy huffed in annoyance. “Could you  _be_  anymore paranoid? I’m not three.”

Spike gave her a look that said,  _Do you really want me to answer that?_ , but he settled for growling, “Tell me again.”

“Ugh. Fine. Beyond pleasantries, stay the ‘bloody hell’ away from William. No matter...” she paused. “No matter what happens.” But that was the kicker, wasn’t it? She already knew what happened – or, at least, what it had led to.

“And?” he prompted.

“And keep a ‘sodding eye’ on Halfrek/Cecily. Once William leaves, keep her distracted until you get there.” Buffy frowned. “And I can’t just grab her why?”

Spike’s jaw clenched. “Because if you go and put her on alert before I get there, everything could get buggered to hell.”

Buffy gave him a look, but very pointedly didn’t mention that  _that_ was exactly where they first thought they had ended up. “And you’re sure you’ll be able to get inside?”

He shrugged. “If I got us dragged to the past, Slayer, I think William’s invite will stand for me.”

“And you say I wasn’t near William either? You’re certain?” Charles piped up. They were in the sitting room, Buffy and Spike on the sofa, and Charles in the reading chair. It was late-afternoon already, nearly time to get ready to go. Buffy’s chest felt unbearably tight.

“Right, Charlie-boy.”

Charles looked incredibly bothered by that. “Quite a friend I managed to be,” he murmured.

Spike waggled a brow. “Just think you were taken with some bird near the back of the house, mate.”

“That’s of little comfort, I’m afraid.”

Spike laid a compassionate hand on Charles’s knee. “Whatever you did before, Charlie-boy, you won’t ever do now, seeing as you’re helping the Slayer and me.”

Charles perked up at that. “This is quite true, I suppose.” He gazed at Spike seriously. “I’m going to miss you, ol’ chap.”

“Been a pleasure,” Spike said softly, suddenly sounding incredibly like William.

Charles met Buffy’s eyes. “I shall miss you as well, Miss Elizabeth. It has been an uncommon honor to make your acquaintance, and, I dare say, act as your friend.”

Buffy bit her bottom lip so hard she drew blood. “You have been a terrific friend, Charles.”

He beamed at her, then sighed, looking between Slayer and vampire a bit sadly. “Well, then. I quite think that puts our farewells in order, so that we may concentrate on the evening.”

Buffy glared at him warningly. “If you let me go without a hug, Charles, you’re going to leave one very angry Slayer for the future to find.”

“I would never dream of creating such a circumstance, Miss Elizabeth.”

Buffy laughed, warmth and melancholy flooding through her in equal measure. “I really wish you could come back with us.”

Charles looked speculative at that. “To the twenty-first century? Heavens, that would be quite something, wouldn’t it?” But he shook his head, smiling faintly. “As terribly tempting as that is, Miss Elizabeth, I belong in that time only as much as you belong in this one. We must each make our way with the times belonging to us.”

 _But what if I feel more alive here than I do in my own time?_  she wanted to say. But Buffy just nodded her head in assent. And she’d promised after all. No one’s timeline was to get purposefully altered.

Spike grabbed her hand then, and held it with a gentle squeeze. She met his understanding gaze and they gave each other equally small, sad smiles. She wondered suddenly if Spike felt the same way she did. In Sunnydale, he had left as a chipped, defeated Master vampire, forced to turn semi white-hat to have any kind of meager existence, and thus barred from any support from his own kind. But he wasn’t chipped now. She swallowed hard. Would he leave when they got back? Would he despair of her ever gaining the courage to give him what he deserved? She didn’t think so, but some very small, sad part of her kind of hoped he would (the only part that didn’t want him glued to her side). He’d lost so much in Sunnydale. Perhaps the rest of the world would be kinder.

 

***

 

Buffy wasn’t sure she was going to be able to get out of the carriage.  _Holy bustles, batman!_ Xander would have likely said. Actually, what he likely  _would_  say, once they got back.  _I suppose we’ll find out soon if my Xander-isms are on target_ , she mused. Either way, it really didn’t help her current predicament. Three weeks of playing pincushion had yielded what she considered an astounding complex dress. It was ages away from the 18th century monstrosity she’d been enamored with on a certain fateful Halloween, but it was no Bronzing attire. It was, in fact, three shades of pink: some mauve-esque shade on the skirt, a pinstriped peach on the absurd bustle and torso, and a pale pink on the ribbons accenting the whole thing. It should’ve been hideous, but somehow, Victorian fashion made it all work. And it was, the seamstress assured her, at the height of summer fashion. Buffy’s personal favorite part was the neckline. Rather, the fact that it  _had_  a neckline. Unlike her middle-class, every day dresses, upper crust party fashion seemed to remember that women possessed skin below their chins, and her dress had a lovely oval scoop leading into her shoulders, and only the shortest of sleeves to accompany it. She had, for the first time in a month, full range of motion with her arms and shoulders. Perfect for it if she ended up needing to tackle a vengeance demon. She was sort of hoping she got the chance, if she was at all honest with herself. If she was  _really_  honest with herself, she hoped there was a bit more with the punching-Halfrek-in-the-face thrown in.

The carriage door opened, and Charles stood below her, holding out a hand. “May I, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Oh, thank god,” Buffy exclaimed quietly, and he grinned. She took his hand and let him half-lower her to the ground. “I mean it, Charles. Really thought that might be the end of the party line for Buffy.”

He chuckled lightly and wrapped her arm in his. “You are not the first nor, I daresay, the last lady to have encountered the treacherous exit by carriage.”

Buffy eyed him suspiciously. “I have the strong feeling that you might be making fun of me.”

He glanced at her, the picture of innocence. “I can’t imagine what you mean, Miss Elizabeth. Shall we?”

Buffy nodded, and they walked up the stairs of yet another rich looking mansion. Not quite as monied as Charles’s place, perhaps, but it was still miles away from William’s townhouse. Her stomach clenched. This was the last time she’d ever see William. It was last time  _anyone_  would ever see William. Alive, at least.  _God, his poor mother_ , she thought suddenly. Anne would have no idea what become of her dear, sweet son. Buffy resolved to ask Spike later if he had ever followed up on his mother’s fate.

So engrossed in her thoughts, Buffy nearly tripped on the threshold as they entered George Evans’s house, and she was saved only by Charles’s steadying arm.

“Think level thoughts, Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured, a small smile playing on the corners of his mouth.

“Very funny.”

He threw her a serious look then, as the butler took their coats from them in the entryway. “Curtain is up. Are you ready?”

“Um, is that like saying ‘showtime’?”

“I would imagine so.”

“Then yes.” Buffy sighed. “Or as ready as I’m going to be. Easy as pie.” She frowned. “That’s such a weird expression. Pie really isn’t easy. Girl who can’t cook standing right here.”

Charles chuckled softly and took her arm again. “Deep breaths.”

“Kind of with the impossible in this dress.” That had been the one concession she hadn’t been able to wrangle – she was fully-corseted Buffy tonight. It was, however, tied extremely loosely, to the point where she could still kind of breathe.

Charles gave her a wearied look, and she smiled winsomely until he shook his head at her. “Good lord, Miss Elizabeth. You are acting quite the pistol.”

“You can’t tell me you’re  _just_  figuring that out.”

“Not in the least.” He looked at her with a risen brow. “It is just that you seem rather… enhanced this evening.”

Buffy shrugged. “Lots of nerves equals extra snarky Buffy.”

He squeezed her arm gently. “It will be quite alright. I give you my word.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about, Charles.”

“Yes, well, I cannot imagine you need worry about yourself or our tenacious Mr. Spike. You both seem to have quite the knack for conquering impossible situations, if my slight experience with you is any indicator.”

“You’re very good at saying just the right things, did you know that?”

“I do my level best, Miss Elizabeth.” He smiled at her kindly, glancing back as another couple arrived in the entryway behind them. “I believe it is past time we entered the party, yes?”

Despite her trepidation, Buffy nodded in agreement and let Charles lead her into the parlor. The first thing she noticed was the violin player. Apparently, live music in this day and age meant a single elderly gentlemen stuffed in the corner with sheet music and an instrument. It sounded nice enough, she supposed, but was little more white noise against the waves of conversation. The room she entered was quite large, and no less than three dozen of London’s finest aristocrats were packed inside it, chattering in small clusters. Most of the party-goers seemed to recognize Charles and greeted him warmly. Buffy was introduced about a dozen times within the first few minutes, and received no end of interested glances from the men and equally displeased glances from the women.

“You’re a handsome woman,” Charles murmured in her ear, after the last female brush-off. “And on the arm of a well-established bachelor. You’re causing no little stir.”

Buffy grinned. “Fun.”

Charles laughed in twinned delight. “I believe I assured you it would be.”

To her surprise, Buffy found socializing much easier than expected. As a woman in this era, apparently nodding and smiling coyly were main staples of conversation. Normally, this would have annoyed her immensely, but – seeing as she had less than zero interest in stock sums or the latest London play – she felt only relieved this evening.  _Charles_ , she thought sourly,  _severely over-prepared me_. And she had the suspicious feeling that he’d done it on purpose.

After an hour of meandering through equally boring crowds (Spike really hadn’t been kidding in his initial description, as it turned out), they found William, at last, in the very back of the parlor, behind the staircase. He was hunched over a small bit of paper, writing furiously, looking somewhat harried.

“There’s the old chap.”

Buffy nodded and tried to watch him discretely as he stopped a waiter and demanded something from him. Whatever it was, the waiter seemed disinclined to help and promptly vacated the area.

William looked in her direction then, his face glowing with recognition and delight. Buffy felt twin surges of panic and pleasure run through her… only to realize a moment later that William wasn’t looking at her at all. He was gazing up at the staircase.

Charles carefully steered her out of William’s line of vision, to the other edge of the staircase, while Buffy desperately tried to see what had captured William’s attention. It was a woman. A very pretty woman, she allowed reluctantly, in a white party gown. Although  _what_  was on her bodice?  _Seriously_ , embroidered flowers? Ugh. Still, despite her much-with-the-terrible choice in clothing, she herself was a striking figure, all dark, curled hair and big doe eyes. This woman, she realized, was the infamous Cecily Addams, aka, Halfrek. The vengeance demon who would shortly cost William his life.

“Ah, Miss Elizabeth?”

Buffy didn’t take her eyes from Halfrek for a second. “Hmm?”

“In a moment, you may break my arm.”

Buffy loosened her grip immediately, flushing, and turned to her companion. “Oh god. I’m so sorry, Charles.”

He smiled faintly, flexing his arm and trying very hard to hide a wince. “It is of no matter. The limb seems fully functional.”

“You winced.”

“If a touch bruised,” he amended.

“Sorry,” she repeated meekly, glancing back over to Halfrek. The awful woman was chatting quite animatedly with a small cluster of aristocrats, looking every inch one of them. She was clearly well-adored in London society, to Buffy’s great annoyance, and her words were held onto with rapt attention.

Buffy almost jumped when she saw William join Halfrek's small group, entering into some conversation about recent, mysterious animal-related deaths.  _Gee, why does that sound familiar?_  she thought dryly. Apparently animals taking the blame for vampires was nothing new. And, god, could the conversation  _be_  more ironic?

One of the party-goers – who Charles had pointed out was in fact George Evans, the illustrious host (whatever that meant) – seemed maliciously amused by William’s addition to their little circle. He was a short, blond man, with a handlebar moustache and a hideous tie. To a Slayer who had spent mostly every night in the last five years hunting evil creatures, the look in George Evans’s eyes was warningly predatory. If Buffy had hackles, she knew they’d be rising. As it was, the hair on the back of her neck was standing up.

“Ah, William!” George exclaimed merrily. “Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals or thieves?”

Oh, this so did not sound good.  _How about a Slayer who might just add you to the body count, you slimy little worm?_

William, who had been clearly staring at Halfrek, seemed taken aback at the sudden inclusion. He cleared his throat and pasted on a confident, haughty air. It didn’t suit him at all, and Buffy’s heart sank.  _Don’t try to impress them, William._

Unaware of Buffy’s internal plea, William smiled slightly and declared, “I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all. That's what the police are for.” His eyes flickered to Cecily. “I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty.” He waved his notebook slightly as he said it, and George strode forward like a pompous peacock and plucked the exposed bit of paper away, grinning vilely.

“I see... Well, don't withhold, William.”

“ _Miss Elizabeth_ ,” came Charles’s strained voice from behind her.

Buffy cringed, loosening her grip again, but didn’t look away from the scene unfolding just a few feet away. “Sorry, Charles.”

One of the women in the group laughed lowly. It was not a friendly sound. “Yes, rescue us from a dreary topic.”

William reached out for the paper, but George just gave him a haughty look and stepped farther away, up a step onto the staircase. Buffy fought the urge to whack him in the knee.

William looked incredibly panicked, and his eyes flicked from Halfrek to the paper incessantly. “Careful, the inks are still wet.” He reached for the paper again, to no avail. “Please, it's not finished.”

Buffy suddenly had a very, very bad suspicion that she knew what was written on that piece of paper.  _Oh god._

George just laughed, and held up the paper with a flourish. “Don’t be shy now, William.” A small silence rippled out from him as he cleared his throat grandly.  _You bastard_ , Buffy thought.  _Don’t do it. Don’t do it._

"My heart expands…'tis grown a bulge in it, inspired by your beauty… effulgent." George looked over at William with scathing incredulity. “ _Effulgent_?”

Laughter tittered out at that, growing louder as George’s last word was echoed through the room. Buffy felt Charles grow stiff with anger next to her.

“Those right bastards,” he swore lowly.

Buffy and Charles watched, helpless, as Cecily swept from the room, and William – realizing clearly that he was being laughed at – snatched the paper from George and followed, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

One of the men near George snorted derisively. “And that’s actually one of his better compositions, if you can imagine.”

The woman on his arm laughed scornfully. “Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody, because of his bloody awful poetry!”

Buffy’s stomach dropped to her feet. William the Bloody.  _Oh god_.

George watched William as he strode away and shook his head with a disdainful chuckle, saying loudly, very intentionally meaning for William to hear, “It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff.”

And just like that, the origin of both of Spike’s names was unmistakably, unavoidably clear. And both, she realized, her heart nearly breaking, were born of humiliation. Humiliation that he later tried to retake, in death and torture and blood.

Fury roared through her. Those stuck-up, horrible, pompous  _bastards_! She was going to pour hot tea on their laps. She was going to break their stupid, awful kneecaps. She was going to scream at them until she was hoarse and force them to tell her how they could possibly ever treat such a good man so cruelly. But Buffy had no more started to move toward the staircase to punch George right in his smug face, than Charles was tugging her back.

“Charles.  _Let. Me. Go_.”

He looked at her sympathetically, but unyieldingly. “My apologies, Miss Elizabeth, but I gave William my word that I would not let you interfere.”

“ _William_  has just been thoroughly humiliated in front of the woman he loves by those… those  _cretins_!” She still wasn’t sure what that word meant, but it seemed appropriately vicious.

“Indeed,” Charles agreed quietly, his voice like ice. “And I shall not forget it. But we have both sworn to protect William’s timeline, have we not?”

Buffy collapsed against Charles’s arm, still glaring at George. The disgusting man was blissfully unaware of just how close he had come to being pummeled by a Slayer. “We have,” she admitted reluctantly. Then her head snapped around. “Where did William go?”

“In the room just down the hall, I believe. Following Miss Addams.”

“Let’s go.”

The door to the room where William and Cecily conversed was wide open, and their voices filtered into the hall with painful clarity.

“Your poetry,” came a woman’s voice, soft and stern, "it's... they're... not written about me, are they?"

“They're about how I feel,” responded William’s voice, painfully earnest.

“Yes, but are they about me?”

A slight pause. “Every syllable.”

“Oh God!”

“Oh, I know...” William’s voice was quivering, low. “It's sudden and– please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily.”

Buffy’s heart almost broke again.  _Oh, William._

“Please stop!”

She heard William heave a sharp intake of breath, and then, “I know I'm a bad poet, but I'm a good man. And all I ask is that–that you try to see me–”

“Oh, but I  _do_  see you.” Halfrek’s voice was cold, ominous. “That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William.” A long pause. “You're beneath me.”

There was the sound of rapid footsteps, and then Halfrek stepped from the room. She gave Charles and Buffy only a brief glance as she passed.

Buffy felt glued to the spot.  _You're beneath me._  Charles tugged her away, toward Halfrek, and Buffy followed him, dazed, numb.  _It wouldn't be you, Spike._ She was distantly aware when William sobbed in utter anguish and fled the room, heading directly to the front hall and out into the night.  _It would never be you._

Somehow, Charles had gotten them back into the crush of aristocrats without her noticing. Buffy stood, staring blankly at the party-goers in the parlor, seeing their mouths move in slow, mute motion.  _You’re beneath me._  She sucked in a shuddering breath, gaze obediently following Halfrek as she cavorted around the room. Sudden, shamed understanding filled her. No wonder Spike had shown up at her back porch with a shotgun _. I deserved far worse._

Charles was shaking her arm forcefully. “Miss Elizabeth!”

Buffy snapped her eyes to him. “I did that to him, Charles,” she said hoarsely.

Charles watched her with clear confusion. “No, Miss Elizabeth, you did not.”

Her smile was mirthless. “Oh, but I did.” She looked down at her shoes, her breath gasping out as something else occurred to her. “How can he possibly  _love_ me after that?” That stupid, stupid vampire. He should have killed her. He should hate her guts. He should have laughed in her face when she admitted to wanting him. Instead, he loved her. Had  _made_  love to her. Had asked nothing of her that she wasn’t willing to give. Buffy bit back a sob. Was  _that_  what being Love’s Bitch meant?  _Oh god, Spike, I’m so sorry._

And then she heard the front door open, and a figure strode into the parlor a minute later. For several heart-stopping moments, Buffy thought William had come back inside. Until she realized the back of her neck was tingling.

It was Spike. Only… he was dressed exactly like William. Internally, she rolled her eyes. Of course he was. That was kind of the point. But she’d been so intent on her own preparations that somehow she’d completely neglected to pay attention to Spike’s. And Spike had managed to recreate his outfit from a hundred years ago with uncanny perfection. Of course, it was also the outfit he had died in and later been reborn in. It probably wasn’t something easily forgotten.

His hair was honestly the most shocking part. He had dyed it all a light brown to match his natural shade and, while it wasn’t as long as William’s, it was tousled in just the right way so that the missing length wasn’t noticeable upon first glance.

Spike had apparently also managed to get a hold of a pair of spectacles, although his piercing blue eyes looked through them in such a way that she knew instinctively that the lenses were only for show.

Spike didn’t look at her for even a moment as he entered the room, and Buffy’s aching heart split right open. She’d deserve it if he never looked at her again. Instead, he strode to the center of the room, where Cecily stood laughing, likely over William’s heartfelt words. The heartless skank.

Cecily broke off conversation immediately as Spike approached, looking shocked and annoyed. “William. What  _are_  you doing? I told you everything I wanted to say.”

Spike’s eyes hardened in a way William’s never had. “I’m afraid we’re not quite done, Cecily.”

Buffy blinked. Spike’s accent was almost spot-on for William’s, but the tone was entirely different. Low, harsh, unbending.

Cecily noticed the difference immediately. She wavered uncertainly in front of her friend. “I don’t know what else could possibly need be said.”

Spike bent close to her and, although Buffy couldn’t make out the words, she could see the shape of his lips as they moved.  _We are not done, bitch._  And then he took Halfrek’s arm tightly in his and forcibly led her back to the side room, the place of his ultimate, final humiliation. Halfrek let herself be swept along, looking entirely astonished.

Charles and Buffy followed at several paces back.

“William! Unhand me! This is quite unacceptable.” A pause, then, “What  _are_  you doing?! I do not–” Her words cut off with a startled gasp, and Buffy slipped into the room.

Spike was standing incredibly close to Halfrek, within kissing distance, the broken chain of a large, long pendant necklace in his grip. Halfrek was gaping at him. All at once her expression changed, and Cecily Addams was gone entirely, washed away in a furious, ancient gaze. Buffy frowned. She was incredibly certain the only necklace Halfrek had been wearing was a small, short chain accented with a ruby.  _It must’ve been a glamour_ , she realized. Huh.

“William.” Halfrek’s voice was razor sharp. “Give that back. Right now.”

Spike just snorted at her and stepped back. “I’ll give it back when I sodding feel like it.”

Halfrek’s eyes widened immeasurably, her anger suddenly competing for all-out bafflement.

Spike smirked at her. “Figured it yet,  _Halfrek_?”

Halfrek grew incredibly pale, and she stumbled backward to the sofa, sinking down. “What– how do you know that name?”

“Because you’re the bloody bitch that killed me,” he growled, and vamped out.

Halfrek stared at him, astonished. “I don’t– don’t understand.”

Buffy moved forward into the room, Charles following silently, and Halfrek’s eyes snapped to theirs suspiciously. Buffy clenched her hands at her side. It wouldn’t do any good to beat the demon up. Very, very unfortunately.

The vengeance demon’s gaze narrowed as she looked from Spike to Buffy to Charles slowly. Her eyes ended on Spike. “You’re not the William that was just here.”

Spike laughed harshly. “That wanker is out getting himself permanently buggered, thanks to you and your miserable lot.” His golden eyes narrowed, fangs flashing. “I come back in a week, you heinous trollop, and drive a railroad stake through George Evans’s skull.”

 _Good_ , was the only cohesive though Buffy could manage. It should have shocked her, but instead it gave her only an immense amount of terrible pleasure.

“Him and all his mates will start sprouting stakes this summer,” Spike continued, eyes glowing. “ Just as you – you manky slag – are fixing to do.”

Halfrek’s eyes narrowed. “That fate will have been perfectly accidental, William. I had… other… plans for George Evans and his associates.”

“Oh, it right  _was_  a bleeding accident,” he growled at her. “Which means I did your bloody job for you.”

Halfrek shrugged, and surveyed her fingernails with disinterest. “So you do my job for me. Would you like a thank-you note, William? Really, I’m not sure what you’re getting at here.”

Spike’s arm shot out and he grabbed Halfrek by the throat, squeezing hard. She clutched desperately at his arm, choking and thrashing wildly.

Charles moved forward then. “William!”

Spike snarled, not looking at him. “Stay outta this, Charlie.” He tilted his head coldly at the slowly suffocating Halfrek, looking every inch a murderous Master vampire. “Bitch’s hard to kill.  _Aren’t you_?” And then he threw her hard against the couch, where she lay, gasping.

“Point of fact, demon bitch,” Spike continued conversationally, swinging her pendant in a hand and shifting back to his human guise, “is I end up making you look all sunshine an’ roses. You drive a bloke to get himself vamped, and the same tosser then wreaks bloody poetic vengeance on your mark. D’Hoffryn doesn't figure you were just being a dozy bint for the bloody fun of it – or else he doesn’t give a fig – and you end up with a posh holiday flat in your favorite sodding hell dimension.”

Halfrek rubbed her neck where red hand prints were blooming, stiffly drawing herself back to a sitting position. “So what, William? You want a timeshare?”

Spike snarled at her. “Don’t think I won’t drain you dry, you bloody bitch.”

“No timeshare then,” she said coolly.

Buffy suppressed the desire to deck the demon, crossing her arms on her chest. “We want you to get us back to our time.”

Halfrek looked at her with amused disdain. “And when might that be?”

“2001.”

Halfrek’s eyes widened slightly. She peered more closely at Buffy. "You're not all human, are you? Half-breed?"

"Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer," Buffy said coldly. She stepped closer. "And in my time, we've already destroyed your pal Anya, so I'm pretty familiar with how to take down a vengeance demon." It wasn't really the truth, of course, but  _she_  didn't need to know that.

Halfrek gaped at her, her voice wavering. "Anyanka? What did you do to her?"

Spike shot Buffy an approving look, then smirked coldly. "None of your bloody business, now is it?"

Halfrek glared at them, smugness gone. “What is it you want?”

“We want to get back to our own time,” Buffy repeated.

Halfrek pursed her lips. “Wishes aren’t cheap, honey.”

“How about I smash your pretty lil’ bauble here if you don’t,” Spike offered.

Halfrek sighed and stood, looking incredibly irritated. “That’s the last time I trust a Frellian Demon to do a glamour correctly.”

Spike glanced over at Buffy. “Remind me to send the wankers a thank-you basket when we get back, yeah?”

Halfrek pursed her lips. “I’ll need my amulet back for the wish.”

Spike eyed her warily. “Don’t trust you not to tottle off.”

The vengeance demon sighed heavily, rolling her eyes. “I swear upon my powers that I will not leave before granting you a wish, insipid though it may be.”

Spike considered her for a long moment, frowning. Then, hesitantly, he handed Halfrek back her amulet. She snatched it, holding it close to her, and then gave them all a tight, incredibly fake smile. “Shall we? I have places to be and people to avenge, you know.”

Spike nodded roughly, and then his eyes widened. “Just a tick.” He swept from the room. Buffy, Charles, and Halfrek stared after him, baffled, but Spike returned a moment later, a very familiar small case in his hands.

He grinned at Buffy. “Not leaving our kits, yeah?”

“Couldn't leave your precious Slayer trophy, you mean."

He shrugged. “Earned it fair and square, Slayer. S’mine.”

Halfrek sighed impatiently. “Is that all?”

Buffy made to nod, then turned suddenly, face falling into alarm. “Charles! You promised!”

Charles strode forward without a word and gripped her into a tight, warm embrace. After a long moment, he pulled back to look at her, dark eyes crinkling into a sad smile. “It has been my immense honor, Miss Elizabeth.”

“I’m going to miss you, Charles.”

“Please give your Rupert Giles my best.” He held her gaze meaningfully. “And do me the good turn of not letting the old dog turn ‘now’ into ‘before’, yes? You both deserve better.”

Buffy bit her lip, nodding. Sudden determination filled her. “I won’t.”

Charles released her, pausing only to present a soft, chaste kiss to the back of her hand in parting. Spike came up beside him a moment after and the two men shared a firm embrace before separating with a last clasping of arms. Neither said a word, though both their eyes looked wet.

Finally, Charles stepped back, near the door. “Farewell to you both,” he said softly, and Buffy’s heart clenched.

 _But I’m not ready to never see you again, Charles_ , she thought desperately.

Still, she gathered her will and turned back to Halfrek. The vengeance demon had gone back to analyzing her fingernails. She noticed their gaze and looked up with feigned innocence. “Oh, are you ready now? Thought I might have time for a manicure first, with the way you’re carrying on.”

Spike ignored her and looked over at Buffy, solemn and unreadable. “Ready, Slayer?”

 _No._  “Yes.”

He turned to Halfrek. “I wish for the Slayer and me to get back to our time in Sunnydale 2001.”

Halfrek’s face shifted, turning veiny and hideous. Behind them, Buffy heard Charles gasp sharply.

“Done,” Halfrek intoned in a deep, gravelly voice, and the room began to spin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize Halfrek using 'timeshare' is technically anachronistic here, but I like to headcanon that demonic communities - considering the many dimensions and ancient societies and long lifespans of many demons - invented the concept centuries before humans.


	17. Here We Go Round Again

The room tilted and whirled like one of those nauseating carnival rides – all sharp side-to-sides, with an unexpected jerk when the machine inevitably malfunctioned – and then abruptly settled. Buffy realized she had fallen to the floor on her hands and knees (which was definitely an uncomfortable feat, between bustle and corset), her stomach churning. She found herself staring at the room’s lightly abused rug. It was one of those oriental pieces that seemed to dominate the Victorian everywhere, all dark reds and ornate geometric flowers. Then she frowned. It looked the same. Shouldn’t a carpet, you know, mold or something, after a hundred years? It was then that she realized it wasn’t just the carpet. Everyone and everything stood just as it had a minute before. Huh?  _Shouldn’t we be in California?_

“ _You bloody fucking bitch_! What did you do?!”

Buffy’s head snapped up and she saw Spike advance, livid, on Halfrek.

Hafrek just eyed him coolly, seemingly unfazed, as she darted away from his grasp. It was a pretty graceful movement for a woman in a giant white dress. “I did exactly what you asked, William. I made it so that you can get back to your own time.” Her gaze settled on the prostrate Buffy. “Both of you.” She shrugged, her head tilted, as she considered the Slayer. “It was easy, really, you were so close to it already.”

“I will rip out your brainstem, you heinous bitch! You were supposed to send us back!”

“Oh, honey,” Halfrek fixed him with a chill smile, all demon. “That’s just not how this works.” Her expression grew thoughtful, and perhaps the smallest touch guilty. “I  _am_  sorry for being the inadvertent cause of your death, William. Consider the lifting of your little sun allergy as my apology.” Then she touched her pendant and was gone.

“Oh god.” Buffy thought she might vomit.  _I don’t understand. She’s not taking us home? And why is my stomach trying to pull itself inside out?_  “Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.”

And then Spike was there, holding her shaking shoulders as she kneeled, gasping. “Breathe, pet. Just breathe.”

When her vision cleared, Buffy struggled to her feet in a violent swish of fabric. To her dazed surprise, she was held up on both sides – on her left by Spike and on her right by…

“Charles!”

The man smiled wanly at her. “It seems it is not yet time for us to part after all, Miss Elizabeth.”

Buffy blinked, trying to clear the odd fog in her head. “I guess not,” she murmured, unreasonably relieved. Then she turned to Spike, frowning. The vampire’s face was incredibly stormy, clouded with rage and despair. “I don’t understand. What happened?”

Spike’s jaw clenched, and she knew he was biting back a snarl. “Bloody fucking bitch played us, Slayer. Vengeance demons never do a sodding thing straightforward if there’s a way to bugger it all.”

Buffy sighed, her eyes blinking shut momentary. What in the world was going on with her head? It felt like it weighed a million pounds. Her limbs, all jellied and weird, weren’t much better. “No. That’s not what I mean.” She paused. “Well, not all that I mean.”

“What did you mean, luv?”

“What did she do?” Buffy laughed weakly, closing her eyes again. The nausea lessened when she didn’t have to look at anything. “Besides have me hit with an invisible truck.”

Spike was silent, worrying her immensely. She blinked her eyes open in time to see him flick a meaningful glance over at Charles, and then the two men led her to the couch, gently lowering her to a sitting position. She waited until they had settled her, expecting that either one of them might answer, finally. But still, silence.

“Spike?” Her voice quavered, and she hated it. “What did Halfrek do?”

The vampire sighed noisily and joined her on the sofa, raking a frenzied hand through his hair. “Not exactly sure, pet.”

“But you have a suspicion.”

Worried blue eyes met hers. “Yeah.”

 _Oh god._  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

He drew in a sharp breath, not looking at her. “Could be,” he said finally.

“Spike. Tell me.”

He hesitated, then met her eyes, something angry and self-mocking in his expression. “You feel like you just got off a bender, Slayer? Head all cottoned up? Like you’ve been swimming in deep water and come up too fast?”

“Um… yeah, actually.” Something hard and panicky took hold of her, and Buffy froze. “ _Oh god._ I’m… I’m not a  _vampire_ , am I?”

He chuckled lowly, but there was no humor in the sound. “No, pet. You’re still with the living. Can hear your little pattering heart from here.”

“Then… what?”

Spike’s fingers were twitching, and she knew immediately that he wanted a smoke. Still, his eyes never left her face, and they were terribly bound up in some dark emotion.

“Spike, please.”

He exhaled sharply, his brow furrowing. “It’s the first feeling, alright? Before the blood lust hits. Before the realization that you’re in a bloody grave.”

Buffy stared at him. “But you said…”

“You’re not a vampire, Buffy.”

“ _Then what am I?!_ ” Ouch. She closed her eyes and cradled her head in her hands. Yelling was definitely not of the good for a wish-induced headache.

“I ‘spect,” Spike said softly, “that she had a right chat with your demon.”

“And what? Pissed it off?”

“Told it to hold you a bit tighter.”

Buffy looked up from her hands, wrinkling her nose. “What with the huh? God, Spike, my head is way too with the hurtage for this.”

Charles cleared his throat. “A veritable Sir Galahad, would you say?”

A smile flickered on Spike’s lips. “Quite, Charlie-boy.”

Buffy groaned. “In English, please.”

Both men chuckled at that.

“I would so glare at you if my eyes would stop hurting. Someone explain. Now.”

Spike touched her chin lightly, bringing her to face him fully on. His expression was resigned. “Think she’s gone and put a spanner in the works, Buffy. Think she’s made you immortal.”

Buffy blinked. “She…  _what_?”

“It's the feeling of your bloody body moving about and not holding a mortal coil, yeah? Disconcerting at first. Your mind’s not used to it. Trying to tell your body all sorts of rot it won’t listen to anymore.”

Buffy held up a hand, halting any further conversation, and stared blankly at Spike. “You’re saying I feel like this because I’m not used to my body being  _immortal_?”

He shrugged. “It’ll pass soon, pet.”

Buffy just gaped at him. “ _This_ was easier than plopping us in California?!”

Spike’s mouth twisted. “She never said it was easier, though I suppose it was. She just knew it’d cause more trouble this way.”

“This is not ‘getting us to back to Sunnydale’, Spike.”

His expression was grim. “Technically, pet, it  _will_  get us back to Sunnyhell, so long as we don’t bollocks it up.”

Buffy stood abruptly. The room all at once felt far too warm, and the air felt thick, like she was in the middle of a sauna. She was going to choke on it. “I have to get out of here. Now.  _Get me out of here_.”

Spike nodded brusquely, standing, and met Charles’s eyes. “Charlie-boy, mind taking the case back home? We’ll be on in a bit.”

Charles nodded. “It would be my pleasure.” He squeezed Buffy’s arm gently. “It will be quite alright, Miss Elizabeth.”

Buffy really wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

 

***

 

The escape from the party was a blur. Between a short, silent walk and an equally silent carriage ride, they ended up in a lowbrow pub that apparently doubled as a dance hall. Several dozen plainly dressed couples were dancing in the middle of the space, set to the stylings of a shabby quartet. Buffy felt intensely over-dressed. She knew she looked it, too, as the patrons gave her openly funny looks as she and Spike walked through the door. Spike sat them at one of the booths along the side, next to the dance floor, and then stared darkly at a full glass of whiskey. She had the distinct impression he was hoping it was Halfrek’s throat.

Buffy peered down at her own full glass. The nausea had passed on the carriage ride over, to her immense relief, leaving her feeling…. God, what did she feel?

“This is seriously messed up,” she muttered. “I’m the Slayer. Way past my expected expiration date already. And now… I don’t have one at all?”

Spike didn’t look up from his imagined murder of the glass. “You’re immortal, pet, not sodding invincible.”

“But… I don’t want to be.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t ask for this, Spike! And now, I have this… this  _thing_ , and…” Her chin trembled. “And we’re not even back home!”

Spike did look up at her then, his face stony with determination. “We’ll get back, Buffy. I promise you. I’ll find a way, even if I have to rip through half of hell.”

Buffy gazed at him for a long moment, at the strong, resolute lines on his face. At the vampire that would move heaven and earth and hell to get her what he thought she wanted.

She glanced down at her hands. What  _did_  she did want? Only a day ago, she had been dreading the return to Sunnydale. But it was never really expected that she wouldn’t go. It was home, after all, and where she belonged. She eyed the small creases in her skin, as if they might hold her much-with-the-elusive answers. She frowned. Minus the initial nausea from the spell, she didn’t  _feel_  any different. Didn’t look any different.  _But now somehow everything that looks the same will stay, well, the same._  She apparently had forever now, if she didn’t do something stupid, like get herself killed. It was a baffling thought.

“Buffy?” Spike was watching her closely, clearly worried.

The threads of an idea began to take hold in her chest, and she released a soft, tentative breath, still peering at her hands. "What if we just... wait it out?"

"What?"

Buffy lifted her head shyly and met his startled gaze. "The future isn't going anywhere. It's not like the Scoobies even miss us. To them, we just poofed through a portal. Nothing else has happened yet." She frowned. "I think. God, time travel is way too with the twisty."

Spike looked at her with a furrowed brow, tilting his head. "So, what? We just... catch up to them?"

"Yeah."

The beginnings of a smile were threatening his face, but she saw him clamp them down. "And do what exactly, luv?"

"Um... travel?" Buffy shrugged. "In Sunnydale, the only vacation I get is a quiet summer. But it's not like I can ever just take off and... and go to Rome, or something. Something Hellmouthy would pop up on the flight over, for sure. And it'd just be a jet-lagged Buffy left to take on whatever new I'm-Going-to-Eat-Babies baddie had come along."

Spike chuckled lowly. He drummed fingers tightly on the table then, not looking at her.

Buffy frowned. "Do you... does this not sound like a good idea?"

His fingers stopped, but he was still staring intently downward, as if the marred wood grain of the table was incredibly interesting. She knew for a fact that it wasn't. "It's not that," he said slowly, softly.

Buffy couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Spike. Look at me."

He did, haltingly. His expression was carefully blank, but his eyes were stormy, flickering with a myriad of emotions she couldn't place.

"Are you... are you afraid you'll get tired of me?" she guessed quietly, biting her lip. "I mean, I know a hundred and twenty years is like an insane amount of time. I mean, it’s longer than I really even want to even think about right now. Like geez, what sticks around for a century? Trees, I guess, and buildings, and books, and demons, of course. And… and… what's the four years you've known me compared to  _that_? And god, I could be a terrible traveller. All grumpy and jet-laggy and annoyed. Wait, who am I kidding, I  _know_  I'm probably terrible. But I promise I'll try. And eat disgusting new foods and... and not complain when we can't find real bathrooms and–"

And then Spike's hand was covering her mouth.

"Buffy."

Unable to speak, she just raised a brow.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked at her fully. As she watched, all the careful neutrality fell away, and she was left with the face of a man whose emotions were all on display.  _God_ , she thought,  _he's terrified_. And... and hopeful? And... what? His hand fell away.

"I don't understand," she murmured. "Tell me?"

Spike laughed shakily, running a hand through his hair, then fixed determined blue eyes on her.

“I'm bloody terrified, Buffy," he said.

 _Got that one_ , she thought victoriously.

"I love you so much I can't bloody breathe."

 _So not with the true_.

He saw her expression and chuckled. "Metaphorically, pet." He took another deep breath. "I love you so much," he repeated. "And the prospect of a century with you sounds like...  _bloody hell_ , Buffy, it sounds like heaven." He smiled faintly. "Even if we spend more'n half of it at each other's throats."

"Half might be optimistic," she agreed.

He touched her cheek, so lightly she could barely feel it, and held it there. His eyes were incredibly blue.

"So why terrified?" she prompted.

He dropped his hand with a rueful chuckle. "I've already spent a century – same sodding century, as a matter of fact – travelling the world with a woman I love."

Buffy's stomach dropped to her feet, shame and disappointment flooding through her. "Oh. Right." Of course, how could her offer compare to the insane exploits he'd had with his dark princess? God, they'd been called The Scourge of Europe for a reason. And he'd be forced to do it all over again, except bound into non-evil doing by a century of Slayer. She nodded her head resolutely, trying to still the awful ache that had taken up residence in her chest. "I understand. We'll just... we'll find someone who can send us back."

He huffed at her then. "No," he said sternly, grabbing her chin, "I don't think you do understand."

Buffy tried to keep herself from trembling, knew tears were grabbing at the edges of her eyes. "What's not to understand? It's old hat. Boring Buffy. Not like–"

" _Bloody hell_ , woman, just listen!" He shook his head at her, eyes so bright they blinded. "I  _just_  told you it would be heaven, you impossible chit. And I'm terrified because..." He clenched his jaw. "Because the last go ‘round, I spent the entire bloody time loving a woman who could never love me. And it was living hell. But I'll do it again, in a bleeding heartbeat." His face was crooked. "Never be done being Love's Bitch. But Christ, I don't... don't want to, yeah?"

They stared at one another for a long moment. Then Buffy's gaze grew wide in understanding. Abruptly, she stood from the table, and tugged Spike up with her. She drew him, dumbfounded, to the edge of the dance floor, and then stood there, hands on hips. “Tell me again, Spike.”

He gazed at her helplessly, baffled. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me that I know I want to dance.”

His face stilled immediately and his mouth thinned to a stubborn line. He stared back at her with riotous blue eyes, silent.

“ _Please_.”

Spike moved closer to her, his face a hairsbreadth from hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek as he positioned his mouth by her ear. She closed her eyes, inhaling the sharp scent of him, the tingle of his close presence. She stood quietly, waiting.  _I will so outwait you, you stupid vampire. Just try me._

Then very softly, very lowly, he said, “You know you wanna dance, Slayer.”

“Say I do want to…” she replied, equally softly.

His breath gasped out, strangled, pained, harsh. “Buffy, don’t–”

She pulled away, far enough to see his face – to see the blinding, tortured hurt in his blue eyes, mixed in the with the faintest touches of hope – and laid a single finger on his lips. He fell silent, eyes begging her to stop. To end his torment.

God, he really thought she was going to step on him again. Take his guarded question, his desperate desire – the desire that a hundred years ago he hadn’t felt the need to hide _… I would like to declare my intentions… All I have are words..._  – and throw it back in his face. As Cecily had done. As  _she_  had done once before. Did he think so little of her still? Even after everything? It hurt to think that, until she realized that he’d had no other reply. Ever. Cecily scorned him in the most awful way possible, Drusilla used him for a century, never letting him claim her but taking everything he could give, and she– _I’m the worst of all_. _I’m supposed to be the hero, and I crushed every little bit of him that I could._ And in the most disgustingly, instinctual way, she had. Somehow, a hundred years later, she had managed to perfectly recreate the humiliating rejection that had forced him to vampirism.  _You’re beneath me._

But Buffy and words were non-mixy, and she didn’t know how to tell him that she had never regretted anything so much as she regretted that. Didn’t know how to make him understand that he had changed her in some fundamental, powerful way that made her feel for the first time that the spirit guide’s words had been true.  _You are full of love._

There was no help for it. She would just have to borrow her old words and hope she could make them new.

“Say I do want to dance,” she said quietly, and felt him tremble. “But it would have to be with you. It would always be with you, Spike.”

Spike gave a cry that sounded like a half-sob and grabbed her by her shoulders, his grip hard and almost hurting. He stared fiercely into her eyes, with something akin to wild hope or complete terror. “Buffy. Don’t. Please, god, don’t say that if–”

“I love you, Spike.”

Whatever response she expected, it was not what she got. Spike jerked from her like she was on fire, and backed away a few steps. Where he then stared at her like she had just eaten his mother.

“Say it again,” he demanded finally, harshly.

Buffy blinked. “Um. I love you, Spike. You stupid vampire. I love you.”

He continued to stare at her intently, his chest heaving.

“I tried to tell you before… but you didn’t understand.”

Something flickered in his gaze. “The poem,” he said roughly.

Buffy nodded, at a loss. She looked down at her shoes, panic starting to eat through her chest. “Is this bad somehow? I mean, you just said you loved me, so I thought– _eep_!”

Spike had darted toward her without warning, taking a tight hold of her waist with one arm and capturing her right hand with his free one, raising it to her shoulder. Then, abruptly, he pulled her farther on the dance floor, navigating carefully between couples, his breath tickling her cheek. He led her silently around with formal, unhurried motions, forcing her to move with him in a stilted pattern. Forward, side, close, forward, side, close.

“Uh, Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?”

“What are we doing?”

He smirked. It was blindingly beautiful to see. “Know you’re a bit slow on the uptake, Slayer, but I’d think even you’d figure this one.”

“Don’t be a jerk.”

His expression softened, grew into a solemn, tender smile as he whirled her into a sudden turn. “We’re waltzing, Buffy.”

Oh. A small sound of surprised delight escaped her.  _So this is what waltzing is like._  Huh. She smiled at him slyly. “So it  _is_  that kind of party.”

Spike’s eyes lit up and low laughter rumbled through him. He pulled her closer, gaze darkening. “It is now,” he told her huskily. Then he leaned down and kissed her – a brief, intense kiss that nearly took her breath away. He pulled back with another smirk a moment later, and continued their dance as if nothing had happened.

Buffy huffed at him, but let him move her about. “No fair.”

“Plenty of time for that later, luv.”

“I hate you.”

His eyes twinkled at her. “No, you don’t.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “No, I don’t. I love you.”

Spike smiled broadly at that, looking at her with incredible tenderness and awe. “Not sure I‘m ever going to get used to hearing that,” he murmured.

“We have a hundred plus years, Spike. Pretty sure you’ll get used to it by then.”

He halted them suddenly, leaving her frozen in an awkward sidestep. His expression was carefully neutral. “Why only a hundred, Buffy? Is this just a way to pass the time until we make it back to your bleedin' Scoobies?”

She cringed. That really couldn’t have come out worse if she’d tried. Stupid Buffy words. “No. No, Spike. I just meant… you’ll be used to it by the time we get back.” She gazed at him very seriously. “So that by the time we  _do_  see the Scoobies again, they won’t be able to convince you I don’t mean it.”

His expression crumpled into wonder. “Buffy…”

She nudged into his arm with her hip. “More dancing, please.”

“Never stopped, luv,” he said quietly. But he started up the waltz again, eyes never leaving hers.

 

***

 

It was almost dawn before they made it back to Charles’s house.

“I think my feet might fall off.”

Spike snorted at her. “Best hope they don’t. Would make the next century a touch difficult.”

Buffy pursed her lips, trying to contain a smile. “I guess so.” She leaned against the inside of the front door, shaking her head. “I still can’t really wrap my head around it. I’m never going to die? I mean, I never expected to get old, so that part’s not weird. But…”

“So it's really no different than before, yeah? Just the before death part’s a touch longer. And with the way you risk your pretty neck, won’t be alive forever.” His eyes grew dark and dangerous. “But it bloody well better be after I’m dust.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll sodding resurrect you, so I can kill you again, you reckless chit.”

“You’re calling  _me_  reckless?!”

“Talk to me again when you’ve gone a century without buying it, Slayer.”

“Hmph!” Buffy crossed her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes. As she did so, she caught the edges of sunrise peeking over the neighboring house through the front window. “Spike? Want to be reckless right now?”

“What are you on about?”

“Halfrek said something about your sun allergy, right?”

He eyed her warily. “Seem to remember something about it, yeah.”

Buffy swung open the front door and held out a hand. “So come be reckless?”


	18. Getting Back to Sunnyhell: Take 2

Spike was standing in the sun.

Buffy was very barely ignoring the screaming voice that warned  _Vampire! Sun! Bad!,_  her fingernails making bloody indents in her palms.  _See?_  she told herself shakily,  _No fire. No poof! Dusty vampire._

Definitely no dusty vampire. In fact, Spike looked incredibly… alive. She’d been too shocked and angry to appreciate it the last time she’d seen him in full sun – when he’d come after her with the Gem of Amara. She was definitely making up for that now. His alabaster skin was rendered with unfair perfection in the light of day, golden and smooth, and the sharp planes of his face were highlighted perfectly. Too bad his clothing covered his most interesting parts.

“Think you’ll freckle?”

He grinned at her, then glanced up at the newly risen sun, squinting. “Just might.”

They said nothing for several minutes, until Buffy grew tired of the quiet. “So… what do we do now?”

Spike sighed, admiring his outstretched fingers playing in the sunlight. “We get the bloody hell out of England, luv.”

“Huh?”

“Earned my name this summer, yeah? Ended with a mob, long story short. And there’s the small issue of my family.”

Buffy frowned for a moment. Then her face brightened. “Guess that means Rome is free and clear?”

Spike stared at her, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Would rather not.”

“Why not?”

He brushed a hand through his curls. It was incredibly bizarre to see them light brown. In the light, he had never looked more like William – William’s clothes, William’s hair, William’s eyes. Then it hit her. She  _was_  looking at William.

“William…”

Spike blinked. “What? No, he’s not there.” He cast her an irritated look. “Were you bloody listening at all a moment ago?”

Buffy just laughed softly and stepped close to him. It was beyond weird, feeling the early morning sun on her face and standing next to the vampire who loved her. His eyes, if it was at all possible, looked bluer in the sun.

“No.” She touched his cheek gently, pointedly, with the flat of her palm. “ _William_.”

Spike stared at her, speechless, for a long moment. Then he chuckled ruefully, glancing down at his clothes. “Guess I look like the wanker, in this get-up.”

“You  _are_  him, idiot.”

He scowled at her. “Buffy…”

“I love you, William.”

Spike’s mouth snapped shut. He gazed at her, shell-shocked, trembling. “Buffy.”

“Yes, William?”

He swallowed roughly, looking down, away from her. Then he smirked suddenly, tongue curling, and met her eyes again. “In my veins red life might stream again, and thou be conscience-calm’d – see here it is – I hold it towards you.”

Buffy blinked, sudden ridiculous jolts of desire vaulting through her.  _Oh god_. “Did you just leer at me while  _reciting poetry_?”

Spike didn’t let up on his smirk, and his nostrils flared knowingly. He leaned close to her, his lips brushing her ear. “Bet it’d be even better when your lovely quim is clenching my cock, luv.”

“Guh. You’re such a pig.”

He gave her a solemn look, still leering. “Your pig, Buffy.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “So Rome…”

Spike frowned deeply. “Rather not, yeah. The Immortal lives there.”

“ _The_  Immortal?”

Spike eyed her warily, tension radiating from him in thick waves. “Yeah. Know him?”

“No. It’s just... geez, ego much?”

“A right tosser," Spike agreed, grinning viciously.

“With a name like that, totally believe it.”

Spike laughed then, the sound rumbling through his chest with deep mirth. “God, I love you, Slayer.”

Buffy bit her lip, squinting in thought. “I’m not, though.”

“Come again?”

“I mean, all with the Slayer-ness here, but… I’m not  _the_  Slayer. Not of this time. Not for over a century. The now-Slayer is in South America getting knocked off by a stupid reptile, right?” A sudden smile found her. “I’m not the Slayer.”

Spike eyed her with a risen brow. “So I figured from the first part of your speech. And from the last time we had this conversation.”

Buffy huffed at him. “Do you know what this means, though?”

“Besides that you’re right wordy, pet?”

“ _Spiiike_.”

“Explain it to me, Buffy.”

She grinned at him. “It means I’m now officially off-duty Buffy for the next hundred and…” she wrinkled her nose in thought, “twenty-one years. It means I don’t have to feel bad about not saving the world every stupid week while we travel. I don’t have to constantly stalk baddies. Heck, I don’t even have to slay anything.” There was something incredibly freeing about saying the words out loud. Sure, she’d been “on vacation” before, but that was just a “until we get wished back to 2001” vacation. This was real. A century of vacation Buffy.

Spike gave her a sly, sidelong look. “Just a bird on holiday, then?”

"Just the holiday-iest."

He chuckled, but gave her a knowing look. “Somehow don’t think that’ll mean you stop slaying,  _Slayer_.”

“Well… no. But… it means I can just slay when I feel like it.”

“When  _don’t_  you feel like it, pet?”

“Shut up, Spike.”

“William’s gone then, is he?”

“William wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass.”

“Didn’t know him right proper then, at all.”

Buffy laughed despite herself, eying Spike curiously. “Would you like it if I called you William all the time? I don’t mind... it’s just…”

Spike tilted his head at her, speculative. “Just what?”

“Just… William never lived in Sunnydale, you know?”

Spike’s smile was rueful, bitter. “Oh, he did, luv. Just never let you know.” He gave her a wry look. “Wrote you a poem, didn’t I?”

“One you won’t let me read!”

“Yeah, well. It’s bloody shite.”

“I still want to hear it.”

“Too sodding bad.”

“You will show it to me someday, Spike.”

“You go on thinking that, you daft bint.”

“I will, thank you,” Buffy said haughtily. “I always win in the end.”

“Bloody deluded, you are, Slayer!”

“Ass-kickings, multiple.”

“Didn’t need my mum to rescue  _me_.”

Buffy’s retort died on her lips as a sudden thought floated back to her. “Your mom! Spike, what happened to Anne?”

Spike’s grin disappeared immediately, into a guarded, pained look. He didn’t respond for a long minute. “She died,” he said finally.

Buffy touched his arm sympathetically. “I saw… when I was in your home… I knew she had consumption.” She frowned. “That’s not the real name, is it?”

“It's tuberculosis, pet.”

“Oh.”

He squeezed her hand briefly, gently. “Glad you got to meet her, Buffy.”

“Really?”

Spike brushed an uncomfortable hand across the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. She liked you right well enough, too.”

Buffy perked up in pleased surprise. “She did?”

“Yeah. Was disappointed when I told her you were intended to Charles.”

“Well that’s more disappointed than you seemed to be.”

“Oi!” Spike glared at her. “Didn’t know you were mine to miss, you impossible chit.”

“Just because you were in love with a vengeance demon.”

“For the last bloody time, I didn’t know she was a vengeance demon then!”

“Makes my not-dating a hell god almost… nothing.”

Spike snorted. “So that’s your play, is it? Sorry, Slayer, no competition.”

“My almost-relationship didn’t end with me dying, Spike.”

“Only because I jumped in to die  _with you_ , you ungrateful bint!”

Buffy stifled a grin. “Well, god, if you’re going to be so nit picky…”

Spike glared at her. “I am going to fuck you until you bloody well scream for mercy, Buffy.”

Chills ran down her. “That is… god, that is so not a fair threat.”

He smirked at her. “Since when is evil fair?”

“Evil? You are completely delusional.”

“Tell me that again when I’m buried in your pretty lil quim, Slayer.”

“I… ugh. God damnit, Spike.”

He laughed at her.

 

***

 

Charles snuck them out of London four days later. Or rather, he gave them a handsome sum of money to sneak themselves out and then held up a hand, saying dryly, "And please don't attempt to soothe my vanity by assuring me an equal return sum in the distant future. I have the distinct impression that repayment went the way of your finer manners in the past century.”

Spike grinned, unrepentant. "Wasn't even gonna offer, Charlie-boy."

"My level of surprise has reached a magnificent low."

Buffy hugged the man tightly, until he grunted with discomfort. “You’ll visit soon?”

“As soon as I receive your letter, Miss Elizabeth.”

Spike ran a hand through his shortened curls in thought. He’d re-bleached and cut them yesterday, and Buffy honestly wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But – as Spike had so reasonably pointed out – looking like his current fledgling self wasn’t exactly the smartest move. “We should be in Madrid before end of the month, Charlie.”

Buffy smiled warmly at that. She was going to Spain. It had taken the better part of a bickering day to settle on their first destination – a place that met all the parameters of what they’d dubbed the “swear test”:

  * Must be devoid of past versions of selves and associates
  * Slayer-free zone (This one was a bit trickier, as Spike’s memory of previous Slayers was sometimes fuzzy regarding specific years, and Buffy’s knowledge wasn’t any better.  _God, I really should have actually read some of Giles’s stupid diaries._ )
  * Not home to any major known baddies (This was Spike’s major sticking point. He knew, annoyingly accurately, that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from ending said baddie, and inevitably alerting the demon world to their presence.)



Spike looked at Charlie sternly then. “You’ll make sure the paperwork goes through, mate?”

“Of course, William.”

Buffy frowned, looking between the two men. “What paperwork?”

Spike shrugged casually. “Just putting in some assurances for the future, luv.”

Buffy sorted through that. “You’re… investing?”

“Some, yeah.”

“That’s cheating, Spike.”

He snorted at her. “Need dosh to travel, Slayer.” He looked at her slyly. “Unless you prefer I nick it?”

“No!”

“Didn’t think so. So, yeah, investing. Charlie-boy here’s going to hold the papers until we can get ourselves set up proper.”

“Set up?”

He gave her an impatient look. “Gonna have to get some accounts, yeah?”

“Um. I guess. But… we don’t really exist.”

“Not gonna be some human shop, Slayer.” He shrugged. “Plenty of demon-run banks and the like.”

“Oh.” Buffy frowned. “Are they evil?”

“Some of ‘em.”

“Can we use a non-evil demon bank?”

Spike rolled his eyes at her. “Demanding chit.”

Charles chuckled. “I think you are never going to lack for entertainment this next century, William.”

“Lack for sodding headaches, you mean.”

Buffy stuck out her tongue at him.

“I’ll put that to work if you don’t put that away, Slayer.”

Charles cleared his throat loudly, as Buffy flushed. “I quite believe that is my cue to wish you both farewell for now.”

After a last round of goodbyes, Buffy and Spike climbed into the waiting carriage that would take them to the docks. When they’d settled into the bench seats across from one another, the carriage lurching forward on the cobblestones, Buffy examined the vampire across from her. He was staring resolutely out the window, his hands holding the seat in an iron grip.

"You know, I think those little electric scooters in our time go faster than this."

Spike looked over at her, nonplussed. "What?"

"You're acting like the carriage is about to fall down around you."

"Oh." He released the seat and then sat stiffly, hands clenched into his lap.

"Watch the goods there, Mr. Pile of Tension. I rather like those parts."

That earned her a smirk. Then he sighed. "Sorry, luv. It's just... today's the day."

"Vague much?"

He looked her straight in the eye – well, as straight as he could in a bouncing carriage. "The reason I made you have me swear, Buffy. It's today."

She frowned. “Fledgling William is doing something uber-bad today?”

“Yeah.”

“What does he do?”

Spike’s jaw clenched and he looked back out the window. For a long time, Buffy didn’t think he would answer. When she was about to prompt him again, he spoke, his voice so soft she could barely hear. “She was so sick, Buffy. Thought… thought I could save her. Set her free, like Dru’d done for me. But…” He swallowed roughly. “Didn’t take like mine. She was gone. Only the demon who came back.”

Huh? “Who was gone?”

He met her eyes, his gaze bitter and haunted. “My mum, Buffy. She was first one I ever turned. And… the first demon I ever killed.”

Buffy gaped at him. “You… you  _turned_  Anne?”

He flinched, looking away from her again, and didn’t reply. His hands were clenched together so tightly she thought he might break them.

“Spike.”

“Don’t want to hear it, Buffy. Can’t say anything to me that I haven’t already said to myself.”

“Thank you.”

Spike’s gaze snapped to hers, astonished. “What?”

Buffy touched his knee gently, holding his eyes as steadily as the carriage would allow. “Thank you. For telling me.” She bit her lip. “I…” She laughed unsteadily. “God, Spike, if that had been me, and it was my mom…” Her chest grew tight with remembrance.  _I have a soul... What would I be like without that?_  “Well, assuming I would be anything like you sans soul, that is … I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same thing.”

Something snapped in Spike then, and he slumped against the seat, every bit of tension draining from him in a second. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly, grateful blue eyes glued on hers. “That… Buffy, I’ve never told anyone that before.”

Warmth blossomed in her chest. “Not even Drusilla?”

“Never, luv.”

“But you told me.” She frowned. “Even though you thought I might be mad at you for it?”

He chuckled weakly, something incredibly vulnerable flickering in his eyes. “Half suspected you might off and leave me, matter of fact.”

Buffy stared at him. “You thought…” she said slowly, “I would abandon you because you tried to save your mother?”

“Killed her first, didn’t I?” He swallowed roughly, glancing away. “Killed her twice, as it were.”

“It wasn’t her, Spike. You said it yourself. It was just a demon.”

When Spike looked at her again, his eyes were wet with unshed tears. “Dunno why. Christ, thought I…” He broke off sharply and looked down.

 _Oh, Spike…_  In a moment, Buffy had navigated her to way to Spike’s seat, stumbling against the bumpy carriage. She pulled the trembling vampire into her arms. “It’s okay, Spike. It’s okay.”

He buried his face in her breast, chest heaving, arms tight around her waist. She felt the front of her dress grow damp.

They didn’t move until the carriage stopped in front of the docks to take them to Spain.


	19. The First Fourteen Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to pay attention to the dates as you go along :)

  _August 11, 1880  
Dear Charles,_

_Madrid is tiny. Or tiny compared to what I thought it would be. S. says it ends up getting a lot bigger later (well, duh). Anyway, it’s at least California warm here, and there is a beach just to the west. Like a real, actual beach with sand. It’s too bad we’re still in the stuffy nineteenth century. I would so kill to wear my bikini right now (you’d like those, trust me)._

_S._ _has been going way overboard with the being-in-the-sun thing. It’s a good thing he can’t get skin cancer. Major upside, though? I might actually have a real person sleep schedule for the first time in ages. Super downer is that I don’t actually speak Spanish. S. is trying to teach me, but – if you think my English is of the bad – you really don’t want to hear my Spanish. S. just mutters “bloody hell” under his breath a lot._

_We have this super pretty little villa (that’s a house!), and it has an extra room and everything. Which means we are in desperate need of someone stuffy and British to fill it. (Sorry, couldn’t help myself. All with the smoke and mirror-y, I know). Really, though, please come visit us soon._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_PS: S. told me to tell you that the “birds here are easy on the eyes, mate.” (rolls eyes)_

_PPS: S. saw this letter and told me my handwriting looks like “bloody chicken scratch” and then grumbled something about “bloody schools that don’t even teach bloody proper handwriting anymore.” I whacked him with the letter and told him that if he was so concerned about it, he could write the next one. That shut him up right away. Stupid lazy vampire. Anyway, I hope you can read my “chicken-scratch.” Hmph._

 

_***_

 

_September 01, 1880  
Dear Miss Elizabeth,_

_I was ever so pleased to receive your letter. I find that a holiday at the beach would be just the thing. You may tell our temperamental S. that future handwriting seems to have gone the way of his manners. Just how many times does he use “bloody” in a day? Good lord. Speaking of my devolved friend, am I correct in seeing the return address marked from a “Mr. S. Henry and Mrs. Elizabeth Summers”? Whatever possessed him to use that nom de plume? If I recall, his middle name is in fact “Ellsworth.”_

_You can expect my arrival on the 18th of October, provided no dire calamities take place. London has been unconscionably quiet with the absence of certain incessant verbal sparring._

_With sincere regard,  
Charles_

_***_

_September 19, 1880  
Dear Charles,_

_We decided “William” was too dangerous, since his other self is (will be?) widely known under it. He about killed me when I called him “Bill”, and “Willy” is just gross. I think we went through about a billion names before he found one he could “sodding live with.” Apparently “Henry” was the name of his great-grandfather or someone? Someone he doesn’t hate, at least. Also, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone nearly implode with embarrassed rage after being called “Ellsworth” the way he did, so of course I’ve been calling him that as often as possible. “Elly” for short. I think we’ve set a new record for vampire glares. Thanks for that tidbit, Charles!_

_We’ll be waiting on the 18th. S. says to come sooner if you can, before “I lose my sodding mind with this impossible bint.” He’s such an ass._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_***_

_October 05, 1880  
Dear Miss Elizabeth,_

_I see the postmark has been adjusted to “S. Ellsworth” since our last correspondence. I think we shall all be quite surprised if you two do not do in one another before the year is out. Although I sincerely hope you will consider delaying this until after my holiday._

_You may tell S. that there are two people who warrant the “impossible” titling at your residence._

_This letter will perhaps reach you after I do, but I shall take the chance._

_With sincere regard,  
Charles_

_***_

_September 27, 1882  
Dear Charles,_

_We moved again, as you can obviously tell from the return address. I did something really stupid last month and S. wouldn’t talk to me for a week. When I finally got him to look at me, he went on and on about “how I’m a bloody stupid, reckless bint” and how he should just get his third notch before “some other demon sodding does it for me.” Then he practically fucked me through the floor. Did I make you blush there? I really hope I did. Anyway, Paris is all with the exciting. It’s a good thing S.’s investments are starting to pay off, since I am burning a gigantic hole in his pockets. If I have to dress like a freezing nun, then I’m going to at least be pretty while I do it._

_We miss you bunches. Please come see Paris soon. It’s really beautiful this time of year. Isn’t there something about Paris at Christmas? Maybe it’s not a thing yet. I’ve really given up trying to keep my times straight._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_***_

_October 08, 1882  
Dear Miss Elizabeth,_

_You will be gratified to know that I did indeed turn a rather magnificent shade of crimson. I am very sorry to hear of misfortune in Berlin. It has always been a rather horridly filthy city, however, so I cannot feign any displeasure with you having left it._

_Please have a greater regard for yourself, Miss Elizabeth. I fear S. would not survive your absence, and then I would have lost each of my closest confidences in a single, fell swoop. I do not think I need to tell you how incredibly distraught that would render me._

_I have not been to Paris since my university years. It would be a substantial pleasure to again walk its streets. You may expect me at Christmas._

_With sincere regard,  
Charles_

 

_***_

 

_October 22, 1882  
Dear Charles,_

_Sheesh, you really know how to make a girl feel bad. I showed S. your letter, and he looked very seriously at me and said “I can’t even walk into the bloody sunrise anymore, Buffy. But I know the exact number of steps from our bed to the weapons chest. And I know just how long it would take for me to grab a stake and make use of it. And so I know exactly how long I’d have to live without you.” I thought I might break open and die right then. Broken Buffy. Don’t worry, I said every kind of apology I know how to say and kissed S. silly (and then some, but I promise I’m not always trying to make you blush)._

_I guess it just hit me last month, you know? I’m never going to die, unless I do it myself or something does it for me. It shouldn’t feel as daunting as it does. But I’m not the Chosen One right now, and somehow that’s making it worse. I feel a bit with the lost. And there’s just this always and forever fear that I’m going to screw up and change something incredibly ginormous about the future without even trying, and then somehow the future we’re trying to get back to won’t even exist anymore. And it’s only been just over two years… I have a hundred and nineteen more of them to not screw up. How am I supposed to do this, Charles? And what am I going to do when you’re not around to write to? Can you please look into how you could become immortal, too?_

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_***_

_November 11, 1882  
Dear Miss Elizabeth,_

_I have not the faintest intention of going any place unintended for the foreseeable future, although the sentiments are highly appreciated. In fact, you may be pleased to know that I have recently begun courting a respectable lady, a Miss Helena Collingwood. I thoroughly enjoyed the silence of my home for many years; since the departure of yourself and our irascible S., however, it has lapsed into intolerability. My satisfying bachelorhood has been ruined by two figures out of time, it seems. Good lord, I should write a novel. Perhaps I can beat this Verne fellow S. has mentioned (I shan’t, but you are welcome to let S. sweat over it for a few days)._

_In other news, I have heard quite the stir from the remains of London’s social scene (the parts not fallen victim to William’s rage). It appears new wild animals may be on the loose once more, after a couple quiet seasons. It is an oddity, to know the dark belly for its truth. I find I do not enjoy evening gallivants as I used to. I ensure that Miss Collingwood is home by sunset when we socialize._

_With relation to your concerns of the future, Miss Elizabeth, I can only offer this, from the Roman Ausonius: Let us never know what old age is. Let us know the happiness time brings, not count the years._

_With sincere regard,  
Charles_

_***_

_November 30, 1882  
Dear Charles,_

_S. says “about bloody time.” And Charles, geez, could you have possibly been more with the tight-lippedness? I expect full details when we see you next month._

_I mentioned the “animals” to S. He says that after the mob in Yorkshire disbanded, Angelus was able to bring the group back to London for a while. In S.’s words, “The Great Poof couldn’t stand being away from proper society for too bloody long. Might run out of his poncy hair gel.” When I pointed out that Angelus didn’t even gel his hair then (now), he just snorted at me, and said he was “makin' a point.” Anyway, it sounds like the quartet is back in London for a little while. I’m uberglad you’re being careful. If anything happened to you, I don’t know that I could stop myself from doing something that would royally screw future us._

_And you always seem to know the best things to say to make me feel better. S. does, too – unless he’s trying to piss me off (which, really, that’s most of the time) – but it’s easier when it’s not coming from a smug vampire._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_PS: Please send your Christmas list with your reply_

 

***

 

_June 21, 1883  
Dear Miss Elizabeth,_

_I have taken a great leap and asked Miss Helena for her hand. She has most graciously obliged me, and we have made plans for a spring wedding. However, the occasion would not be in the least complete without your esteemed presences. I will not hold with refusals on this matter._

_With sincere regard,  
Charles_

_P.S. Has our S. quite rid Paris of all its libations yet?_

_***_

_July 06, 1883  
Dear Charles,_

_Oh my god, you’re getting married!!! Of course we’ll be there. To use a well-known phrase, wild dogs couldn’t keep us away. Please send the exact date when you have it. S. does ask if it will be held in a church? We assume, but it’s nice to have warning anyway. Not sure if we ever mentioned it to you, but crosses and holy water are on his allergies list._

_We’re super excited to meet Helena, you know. Do you think she might take well to knowing the things that go bump in the night, or are we solidly Ellsworth and Elizabeth? (I really do still call him that, and he still glares at me. It’s my favorite way to end an argument, these days.)_

_And, oh! Please note the new address (same street, just a few blocks farther south). The new apartment isn’t quite as much with the tiny as our first one. Thank god, since we now have local friends. This won’t really shock you, since you didn’t know me in my real time, but I’ve started associating with the peaceful Paris demons. And there are way, way more of them than I could have ever guessed. I’ve even begun to host small parties. Out here, everyone just thinks I’m a half-breed demon, which – in the end – isn’t really that far from the truth. It’s a strange kind of relief, to have supernatural friends, you know? I don’t need to worry about hiding my super strength or pretending that the vampire over there is just a guy who had a really bad plastic surgery experience. S. likes it, too, I can tell. He’s made friends with some kind of spiny demon named Loic. They chat about Descartes and drink a ridiculous amount of wine (Paris’s supplies seem to be holding so far). I’ve started shopping with an Ano-movic woman named Cirette (she’s a kind that can look human when she wants to). I think she may be my first real female friend since the portal. It’s a weird world post (pre?) Sunnydale, Charles._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_PS: I asked S. why he’s never asked me to marry him, and he nearly spit out his tea in shock. I was kind of offended by that. I mean, do I not seem like the marrying kind? Anyway, S. just grumbled something vague about “didn’t think want you’d want to” and blah blah blah. Seriously? I’ve committed myself to being with him for like ever, and he thinks I don’t want to get married? Stupid impossible vampire._

_***_

_July 23, 1883  
Dear Miss Elizabeth,_

_Please mark April 8 in your calendars. I have sent a separate letter to S., requesting his presence as my best man (for the graciousness of god, I am depending on you to get him into a proper suit). It would be most delightful if you found yourselves free for holiday the month of March, as I believe London would benefit from your presences._

_Helena is a sharp-witted, gregarious woman (with no lack of good sense). I place the highest confidence in her ability to manage your identities. If you were to holiday here, that would be an excellent time for you to get acquainted. And in the interest of perfect honesty, I do not know that I could abide a wife who I could not bring into full confidence. If Helena does not run from me then, I should think her able to stand by most of the absurdities of life._

_I am not at all surprised that S. has neglected to follow decorum and decency. But I am more than happy to remind him that they are still perfectly valid life options, should you wish it._

_I am immensely glad Paris is still treating you both with great kindness, and I hope that I have the opportunity to meet your Parisian friends some day in the not-too-distant future._

_With sincere regard,  
Charles_

_***_

_April 19, 1884  
Dear Charles,_

_S. and I are bereft without your company already (the Victorian era is really ruining me, by the way, Charles. I just wrote bereft. Honestly. By the time we get back to Sunnydale, I’m going to sound like Giles. God, kill me now). We can’t imagine a better match for you than Helena. S. was particularly impressed by her calm acceptance of his other face. It was on par with yours, only she didn’t drink a half-decanter of brandy at the same time. Speaking of, sorry for the lack of alcohol S. left in your home._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_***_

_March 13, 1885  
_ _Dear Charles,_

_S. killed a man tonight. No, that’s a lie. He killed four men. And he’s sitting in the living room, waiting for me to stake him. I… I’m hoping if I talk (well, write) through it with you, I’ll start to understand what I’m feeling right now. It was so stupidly human. So normal. If you can call a mugging normal. We had just gotten done dusting a few fledglings down an alley (really, they never learn) and we were starting back to the street when we got cornered by a gang of men. Humans. One of them grabbed me (rolls eyes) and threatened my life if S. didn’t give up his wallet. I wasn’t really ever in danger… well, until one of them stabbed me in the stomach when I elbowed his buddy. I’m not entirely sure what happened after that, except… S. went crazy. Charles, I’ve never seen him like that. Ever. He ripped them to shreds. I kind of blacked out near the end, and I woke up in our apartment, bandaged, in bed. S. hasn’t said a word, except for when I first found him in the living room. “Stakes are in the chest.” It’s been hours now, and I… god, Charles. I don’t think I can do it. No, I know I can’t. It’s just… if I don’t, the single biggest code I’ve followed - “Protect Humans” – is gone. It’s broken._

_And I don’t care enough to keep it._

_I’ve lost too much, Charles. I’ve given up everything ever asked of me, up to and including my life (would've likely been twice, if not for S.) and now I don’t want to do it anymore. S. is the only thing that’s really mine in this new life – that I chose – (and I’m his, too), and I’m just not going to sacrifice him over… them._

_I’m not the Chosen One right now. And I’m not sure I’ve ever been more relieved than I am today. What does that make me?_

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_***_

_March 31, 1885  
_ _Dear Miss Elizabeth,_

_It makes you human. That is all. I am not quite as capable of “ripping to shreds” as S., but I assure you, I would have quite achieved the same result in that situation, had I been able. That does not make me, perhaps, the most noble of men, but I shan’t be sorry for it. I would rather that a woman I loved remained alive._

_I hope you did not leave S. in silence for incredibly long. He has a penchant for the melodramatic._

_With sincere regard,  
Charles_

_P.S. Helena and I are expecting our first child. She is convinced it will be a boy. We’re planning to name him William. I can only hope he doesn’t share his namesake’s predilection for expensive brandy and cockney swearing._

_***_

_April 17, 1885  
Dear Charles,_

_I went out to the living room almost the moment I was done writing to you. S. hadn’t moved from the chair. The stupid vampire was sitting like he expected an arrow to the chest any second, stiff, eyes glazed over. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen despair like that before. He looked at me only for a moment when I came in. Do you know what he said to me then? “I love you, Buffy. I’m sorry I gave you a reason. Make it quick, yeah?” I slapped him. I couldn’t help it. And then I started crying. I tried to say, “I choose you, you stupid idiot. I choose you,” but I was sobbing so hard, I’m not really sure how much of that he understood. I told him again in the morning though, when I could breathe. “You shouldn’t,” he said. I punched him then, square in the face. “Too fucking bad, William. You’re stuck with me,” was all I could think to say. Then I kissed him until I couldn’t breathe. Lungs are super with the inconvenient sometimes._

_Anyway, it’s been a bit of tough month since then. I think S. is afraid to come patrolling with me anymore, but he comes anyway, because he’d never let me go alone. I asked him last week, why he was afraid. “Because I liked it,” he said, so softly I almost couldn’t hear him._

_Sometimes I forget what S. is. Hell, I forget constantly. He’s so much a man to me anymore, I completely blank out that he’s still a monster._

_I told him he’d better marry me._

_Did you know that S. has been carrying a ring in his pocket for almost two years? Since I mentioned marriage to him. The bastard._

_The ceremony is going to be in August. We don’t care what day. We know you and Helena have more obligations, so please write back when you’re free to come to Paris._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_PS:. I told S. about your little bit of news. He started crying (but don’t tell him I told you that). I’m having something shipped your way in celebration. Please let me know when it arrives._

_***_

_May 02, 1885  
Dear Miss Elizabeth,_

_Took him bloody long enough! I quite thought I may have to come to Paris and beat him over the head with my cane. Did I tell you I have been temporarily reduced to the indignity of a cane? I shan’t tell you why. Helena has already laughed at me enough for it. Impossible woman._

_Unequivocally, Helena and I are at your disposal. We shall plan to spend the entirety of July and August in Paris, if you will have us. It will be an excellent holiday for Helena before she feels too ungainly. And it will provide me with a perfectly acceptable escape. I do not think I have ever encountered a horror such as that of the mother-in-law. And currently I am reduced to hobbling in retreat. I believe I may have adopted S.’s penchant for excess brandy this past year._

_With sincere regard,  
Charles_

_***_

_January 10, 1887  
Dear Charles,_

_S. says it’s safe for us to come home for a while, allowing that we keep a low profile. I sincerely hope you are prepared for an absurdly doting vampire uncle. I swear to god, he hasn’t gone a day without mentioning William in the past six months. Will you find if there are houses nearby for rent?_

_Love,  
Elizabeth_

_***_

_January 24, 1887  
Dear Elizabeth,_

_Why in God’s name are you both not back yet? Please leave this instant. We’ll ponder accommodations once you arrive._

_With sincere regards,  
Charles_

_***_

_December 15, 1894  
Dear Charles,_

_Are you trying to break my vampire? He started all out sobbing this time. It’s funny, actually, you ended up naming her doubly after me (I’m certain I never told you my middle name). Anne Elizabeth has a lot of names to live up to now… (And, ugh, don’t I know how that goes?)_

_Malta is beautiful. You know, I didn’t even know Malta was a real place a decade ago. Probably would’ve thought it was someone mispronouncing “Malt”, for a milkshake or something. Do milkshakes exist yet? It is so hot here, I could really use one about now._

_Anyhow, I’m really writing to make sure the packages reached you. S. will kill me if he finds out his first edition got dumped in the ocean and I didn’t tell him. The smallest package is for Will – S. put in a letter regarding it. It’s ridiculously soppy sweet. The bigger one is for Charlie. That one’s from me. I have a note, too, but I’m sure it’s not as well written as S.’s. Yours and Helena's gift was custom-made in London, so I'm not sure if that means it'll have been delivered yet?_

_Please give all our love to the children. And tell Will that the next time he makes fun of my handwriting, he really will be getting coal for Christmas._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_


	20. The Bits

It took Buffy several decades to catch on that – when Spike moved them abruptly from one place to another – it wasn’t always due to imminent “something wicked this way comes,” but instead was often driven by some heinous act done to – or more often –  _by_  his past self. And the only way it seemed for Spike to rid himself of those memories was to force a change of scenery. Once she knew what was going on, she’d sometimes ask him why, and he’d sometimes answer.

From Malta to Mykonos: “Burned down a hospital.”

From Lisbon to Amsterdam: “Slaughtered a miller and his bird while Dru played with the kiddies.”

From Beijing to Hyderabad: Silence.

After the last time, which was another silent not-reply, she'd just stared at him, to his immense discomfort and annoyance. "What?"

"Why does it bother you? You don't have a soul so... where's the guiltage coming from?"

Spike glared at her. "Don't need a soul to regret summat, Buffy." He shrugged. "It's not guilt. I did loads of evil things, and I won't apologize for 'em. Not bloody Peaches, moaning and chewing on rats."

"So regret then."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He leaned back in his chair. It was a habit he'd adopted somewhere in the last ten years, as if slight distance (coupled with his usual head tilt) would provide him with some new level of clarity. They were in a noisy cafe in Hamilton, Bermuda. This little arm of the British Empire had become "all the rage" in the last decade, and 1912 had seen the place flooded with tourists. Of which they were two.  _Stupid nun-wear,_  Buffy thought again. They were sitting next to the bluest ocean she'd ever seen, and people were lounging or wading as far as the eye could see. And every single person was wearing the equivalent of full clothing while doing so. It made the beach far less fun when you had to wear a gown, knickers, and a giant floppy hat.  _We're so going back to France when the bikini gets here._

"Caused a load of pain, yeah?" Spike said finally. "Don't care to do that anymore. That's all."

It was times like this that Buffy couldn’t help but nearly swell with pride at her vampire. “I love you, Elly.”

He sighed. After thirty years, he’d finally given up on the scowl. “Love you, Buffy. You annoying chit.” But he smiled and took a drink of tea, the ring on his left hand flashing in the sun. It was his second one, after a nasty polgara demon had almost cut off his finger (along with most of his arm) around the turn of the century. It was a plain, gold band, nothing to write home about, but the inside was engraved with a simple phrase:  _I swear. Love, Buffy_. Hers – another plain, gold band – said the same thing, only with,  _I swear. Love, William._

Over time, their swear had come to incorporate far more than just a pact not to mess with the future. It had become their guide for the world, for living.  _I swear to always love you. I swear to not die on you. I swear to not be mad at you for more than a month. I swear to kiss you even when you’re covered in demon goo. I swear to try._

Some days – hell, some years – were harder than others. But they hadn’t had an all-out-I’m-going-to-kill-you fight in almost two years, so that was something.

“Ah, pardon me?”

Buffy and Spike glanced up.

A youngish, tweedy-suited man stood by their table, the veritable picture of stuffy British on holiday. Something within Buffy clenched tight, rigid with unrelenting, immediate fear. She had absolute zero evidence. Nada. Zip. Zilch. But that didn’t change the fact that she knew – without a shadow of a doubt – that the man in front of her was a Watcher.

Spike glanced over at her worriedly, nostrils flaring. He eyed the man warily. “Yeah, mate?”

“Oh, a cockney!” The man smiled with somewhat unnerving warmth, gaze flickering cautiously to Buffy. “Pardon the deplorable manners. It is simply that, well… ah…” he colored slightly. “You’ve not a younger sibling about, have you? Or a daughter?”

Spike stared at him, gaze narrowing suspiciously. “What the bloody hell are you on about?”

But all at once, Buffy knew. Another Slayer had been called.  _And they think she’s here. Oh god._ Had Buffy suddenly shown up on their radar after all this time? Or – potentially worse – had they stumbled onto the very place where the new Chosen One was destined to be? Neither option was good. But, seeing as the Watcher had stumbled right into their cafe, it seemed fair to guess that their locator spell had led them directly to her. She glanced around the café. It was a small joint, only a half dozen tables, and – from the way the other patrons were eyeing the man – it was obvious they weren’t the first table he’d visited.

The man colored further under Spike’s scrutiny. “I realize I must sound rather suspicious, or addled, at best.”

“At best,” Spike agreed firmly.

The man’s brow crinkled in worry and he looked at Buffy again, with far more interest. It was then she realized that most of the tourists looked much older than her, closer to her parents’ age than her own apparent one.  _Crap crap crap crap crap._

“My younger sister is in the powder room,” Buffy said suddenly. “Perhaps that’s who you’re looking for?”

Spike stared at her.

She kicked him under the table.

He grunted, then nodded. “Yeah. Little miss gotta powder her nose every five sodding seconds.”

The Watcher looked incredibly relieved. “Ah. That is capital.”

“Just who the hell are you, mate?”

“Oh! My sincerest apologies again. I represent a certain organization that… erm, may be of interest to your sister, ah, pending some… review.” He tipped his hat modestly. “Edwin Giles, at your service.”

Both Buffy and Spike stared at him this time.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Spike stood abruptly. “Pardon us a minute, yeah? Gotta take care of summat. You’ll wait at the table, yeah? Wouldn’t want lil sis worried.”

“Ah… um, I’m not quite certain that a stranger at the table will assure her, sir. Should we not wait together?”

“She’s a solid bird, she’ll be alright.” Spike took Buffy’s hand and pulled her to him. “Gotta fetch a prezzie for her. Don’t wanna lose the table, though.”

“Oh! Well, how fortuitous I have arrived then.”

“Bloody unbelievable, yeah.”

Then Spike grabbed Buffy’s elbow and they walked quickly out of the café and around the corner. When table and Watcher were out of sight, they ran.

 

***

 

“Fuck! Spike, how did they find me?  _Why now_?”

They were back in their rented apartment. Spike was at the window, pacing and chain smoking.

“Dunno, luv. But it’s a damn good thing Watcher’s a dim bulb.”

Buffy couldn’t help but giggle, even though it came out a bit hysterical. “Giles will be so disappointed. Remind me to tease him when we’re back?”

“If I don’t have to kill his relative, Slayer, I’ll help.”

Buffy sighed and threw her purse on the bed. “Ugh! What the hell happened?”

“Two guesses, pet.”

Buffy looked over at him, at the two fingers he held up. He was staring at them narrowly, head tilted.

“One. It's the first Potential they’ve had that hasn’t already been Watcher-ed up in the last thirty years. First time they’ve needed the locator spell.”

“That seems mostly unlikely.”

“Yeah.” Spike ticked a finger down.

“So what’s the second?”

“Their seers look for Slayer potential being Called in, yeah? You’re sodding old–”

“Hey!”

He grinned before continuing, “So you didn’t register. Only, we got too bloody close to the new Slayer. Locator spell echoed, like how William echoed against me. Just been good luck it hasn’t happened before.”

Buffy considered that. That option seemed about as logical as anything else. In fact, it was likely eerily astute, as Spike had a weird habit of being. “And now our luck is gone.”

“Seems that way, luv.”

“Damnit.” She huffed. “We’re in the middle of the freaking Atlantic. You’d think that’d put a serious damper on demon echoey-ness.”

“Not too far from the Colonies, pet, or the West Indies.” Spike frowned. “Reckon the wankers are also going after the other half of the echo.”

“I’m sure they are. At least they’ll find the real now-Slayer there. Wherever ‘there’ is.” Buffy sighed and collapsed onto the bed. “Doesn’t really help us, though.”

“Could just think they’ve bolloxed it.”

“Are we talking about the same power-hungry jerks? You’re the one who reminded me any contact with them was of the uber-bad when we first came back.”

“Yeah. And still stands.” Spike took long drag of his cigarette, the cylinder burning nearly to his fingers, then flicked it out the open window, brows furrowed. “Pack up, pet. We’re off today.”

“Won’t they probably be able to find me now, wherever we go?”

“Without a bloody doubt.”

“So leaving does what exactly?”

Spike sighed as he strode over to their armoire and began stuffing clothes into a suitcase. “Dunno about you, but I don’t exactly fancy being pidgeon-holed on a flea of an island when Watcher boys come sniffing again.” He paused for a moment, eyes falling to his left arm, the be-spelled one. “’Should be a witch on mainland that can help, same as did with me, yeah?”

“I hope so.”

“Come help me pack, luv.”

Buffy joined him at the armoire. They were packed up in less than fifteen minutes.  _After thirty years, I guess we’re bound to be good at this,_  she thought with a strange mixture of pride and anxiety, as she sat on the bulging suitcase and Spike snapped it shut. The vampire pulled her to her feet then and wrapped in her up in a deep, intense kiss, hands sliding down to fondle her waist and ass. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to Spike kisses. His lips were cool, as always, but soft and strong. And the absurd vampire seemed to always know exactly how to use them to turn her legs to jelly and make a tickling burn start low in her belly. His lips moved to her cheek and traced their way to her ear and jaw, nibbling slowly, languorously.

“Oh-h. Spike. do we have time?”

He chuckled in her ear, the cool breath sending a shiver down her spine. “Always have time for your lovely quim, Buffy.”

“Guh.” She panted against him as a firm hand began sliding her dress up to her waist. Luckily, dresses had lost the bustles and gained skirts of loose, light cloth with the turn of the century. Luckily for Spike, mostly. “But… but… dim Watchers and… Oh god. Something–”

Spike’s fingers found her clit and her words cut off with a low whimper. He rubbed her firmly through the dampening fabric of her underwear and she clung to him helplessly. Jolts of white hot pleasure shot through her as he slid two fingers inside her, still caressing her clit with his forefinger. Heat blistered from her toes to the top of her head. “ _William_ …”

Spike drew in a sharp breath. “Fuck, Buffy.” His stroking hand withdrew from her with sharp suddenness and she gasped.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughed lowly and shoved his pants down, backing her swiftly against the now-empty armoire. “Sorry, luv, have to have you, yeah?”

Relief flooded through her. “Oh yes, please. Fuck me, please.” After so many years, she'd finally gotten over the embarrassment of asking Spike to screw her, but he had yet to tire of hearing it. Buffy pulled her husband close, shoving herself farther into the dresser and kicking away her underwear before Spike could rip it off. The small round dresser knobs poked irritatingly into her back, but she ignored them, allowing herself only a small grimace. Wouldn’t be the strangest or most uncomfortable place they’d had sex. Not by far.

Spike lifted her against him so that she was straddling his waist, his hard cock (it was such a stupidly beautiful cock) just at her opening. She promptly dropped down and impaled herself on it. They both gasped as he slid inside, stretching her lips open and filling her from breach to brim.

“Christ, luv. Like a bloody furnace.” Spike captured her mouth again in a rough, demanding kiss, shoving her hard against the dresser as he thrust into her with aggressive, quick movements. Buffy clenched her legs hard around his waist, her hands threaded through his blond hair. He groaned and fucked her harder, pressing into some spot deep inside her that was going to make her unhinged.

“Guh! Spike! Oh god! I love how you fuck me.”

He thrust into her even harder, growling. Yep, she was definitely going to have knobby shaped indents on her back. In fact, she wasn’t quite sure that Spike wasn’t going to shove the dresser through the wall before they were done. The hand that wasn’t cradling her ass began rubbing her clit with a mind-shattering intensity, scattering all thought. Heat rose in her like a burning tidal wave, covering her in unbearable, throbbing ecstasy. Then all at once the throbbing was a bright explosion as her orgasm crashed over her, and the tide became an inferno. It burned her alive. Uncontrollable, sharp spasms rocked through her, tore her apart in every delicious, shuddering way, and she cried out with wild abandon.

Spike groaned harshly as she clenched against him and then released her clit, both arms instead firmly wrapping around her ass. His mouth lowered to her neck, resting against the joint of her neck and shoulder. Blunt teeth bit into her skin, and she writhed, gasping helplessly, as another wave of spasms rocked her. Thirty years ago, Spike’s teeth on her neck – even blunt ones – would have freaked her entirely. Nowadays, it was horribly erotic. He’d done it first before the turn of century, in the throes of his orgasm. It had sent her spiraling into a third orgasm, to her shocked delight. He had been aghast after the fact, panicked, until she breathlessly asked him to do it again. The sudden, darkening lust in his eyes had nearly made her come a fourth time. In thirty years, he had never bitten her, not really, but – these days – she wasn’t sure she would mind if he did. God knew Riley must’ve enjoyed being bitten. The thought was only the smallest amount of bitter after so long, mostly tempered by years of curious introspection as she wondered exactly what kind of pleasure Spike biting her might bring. It had just never seemed like the right time, and something told her that it needed to be. Biting was somehow sacred – the giver and taker of life, the binder of sires and children. It had to be right. And now, right now, being fucked desperately against a dresser, was not the right time. She really, really wished it was.

Spike’s fingers jerked and dug into her ass cheeks. “ _Oh fuck_! Buffy!” He slammed her against the dresser one last time and held her there, his cock twitching wildly inside her as he spilled his dead seed. They stood (well, she was clinging? being held?) there for a long minute. Spike’s breath was harsh and uneven against her ears, and she knew hers wasn’t much better. Finally, he shook his head, stirring, and stepped back to set her on her feet. She took his offer, shakily, and straightened her much abused skirt.

“Jesus, Spike. Am I ever going to get used to how you fuck me?”

He smirked at her, eyes still dark with desire as he tugged his pants back up. “I bloody well hope not.”

She shook her head at him, trying and failing to not smile. She grabbed their suitcase and hefted it with a small grunt. “Onward, Elly?”

“Watch it, luv, or I’ll shag you again.”

“You never told me that turned you on!”

He growled at her in mock exasperation, but bent and gently kissed her brow. “Irritating bird.”

“I’m your irritating bird, though.”

“Bloody right you are.” He smiled at her and then promptly stole the suitcase right out of her hands. “Let’s be off, yeah?”

“Where to, Elly?”

He pursed his lips, but held open the door for her without comment. She knew from the look in his eyes that he was still considering her question. “Best be making our way back to Europe.” A shadow crossed his face. “Great War is coming, yeah? Get our family put up safe.”

Buffy bit her lip, nodding, as they headed out into the street. “I mailed off the letter to Charles last week, telling him to take the family to Spain like you said. I’m sure he and Helena will go, but I don’t know about the Bits.”

It felt still strange to call Charles’s kids “Bits” sometimes, in the back of her head where terms like “Lil Bit” and “Niblet” were reserved only for her little sister.  _Dawnie._  God, she went months without thinking about Dawn sometimes. And then she’d see anchovies in a market in Greece, or hear salsa music playing in a cantina, and there was the shade of her sister. Laughing as she scooted on the dance floor, all coltish legs and elbows. Squealing with delight as she chomped down on greasy fish sliding off limp pizza.

Buffy thought about all the others at random times. A musty book would bring Giles near, squinting as he cleaned his spectacles. An oddity, magical or just funny, would summon Willow, bending seriously to examine whatever object it was. Silliness, like a child laughing at a puppet show, always featured Xander, cracking some kind of nerdy comedic bit of commentary. A bit disturbingly, unusual bedroom activities always brought forth Anya, the ex-demon remarking something incredibly, inappropriately honest. Tara showed up most erratically, usually when Buffy found herself at a moment of unusual clarity and calm.

But Dawn was the constant. Without fail, her gangly adolescent self would turn up and look at Buffy with those doe-ish brown eyes, equal parts snark and teenage insecurity.  _I love you, Dawnie._  And Buffy missed her desperately at times. Only, it seemed weird to miss her – her sister who was currently only a glowing green ball of mystical energy. So she tried not to. Instead, she accepted the weirdness of calling the Delancey children “Bit” (she absolutely refused to call anyone “Niblet”. So much with the vampire weirdness there). Although, Buffy thought wryly, the Delancey’s Bits were far from children these days. Even Annie was, what, eighteen?  _God, that is so weird._

“Does it ever stop feeling strange?” she asked Spike abruptly, as they walked toward the portside.

He blinked at her, never breaking pace. “What?”

“People getting older. I mean, in my head, Charles is still some barely-over-thirty tousled playboy. But when I see him, it all always comes crashing down. I think the first time I saw him with gray hair was about the weirdest day of my life.”

Spike smiled faintly. “Don’t imagine it’ll ever stop feeling strange.”

“Did it for you, the last time around?”

He raised a scarred brow at her. “Was a bit on the evil side last time, luv. Didn’t exactly stick around past dinner.”

“Oh. Right.”

He snorted, but his expression was a bit sad as he eyed the coastline dotted with insanely overdressed tourists. “Was easier that way, anyhow.”

“Being evil?”

“Not caring. About humans, at least. Short lives and all.”

Buffy laughed. “And yet you fell in love with me, a human with a ridiculously short expiration date.”

“Didn’t exactly choose that, pet. Love’s Bitch, yeah?”

“You should really talk to someone about that.”

He smirked at her. “That right? Tired of me shagging you, after all? Could go find another bird, I suppose.”

She glared at him. “Don’t you even joke about that.”

His expression sobered, becoming unbearably tender. “I'm yours, Buffy. You know that.” His mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. “Never want to be anyone else’s, if you ever go before me. I’ll be dust before my next breath, anyhow.”

“Don’t say that.”

Spike shrugged. It was an old argument, and they both knew it. “Just the truth.” He halted them suddenly, grabbing her left hand and caressing her ring finger. “You’re it, Buffy. You’re the one.” He chuckled, a wry sound. “And this… this is more than I thought I’d ever have with you. It’s the closest yours truly is ever gonna get to heaven.”

“Except when you want to wring my neck.”

He smiled at her gently, eyes crinkled in adoration. “Even then. Wouldn’t be you and me without it, yeah?”

“No, I guess not.” She eyed him slyly. “I haven’t punched you in the nose in months, though.”

“’Spect I’m probably due then, yeah?”

“Very funny.”

“Thought so, myself.”

They bickered all the way to the port.

 

***

 

_November 30, 1913  
Dear Auntie Liz and Uncle Elly,_

_You’ll be gratified to know that Mother and Father have successfully hounded me into transferring my accounting office to Barcelona for the foreseeable future. Annie refuses to quit University, however, so I fear you are working with a lost cause in that direction. Charlie has gotten overtly political these last couple years. I don’t think we could pry him away from Parliament for all the tea in England… My long belaboured point with this is that I seem to be the single defector. I assure you, it was not for lack of trying, so, Uncle, please refrain from the absurd show of indignancy that will inevitably follow when we next meet (Auntie – yes, I know he won’t listen, and, yes, I know you will have tried)._

_I humbly beg you come to Barcelona when you are done gallivanting about Paris, before Father drives me right barmy. Please remind me why I have allowed you all to browbeat me into this absurd displacement?_

_Faithfully yours,  
_ _William_

_***_

_August 14, 1916  
Dear Auntie Liz and Uncle Elly,_

_I swear, you are both positively worse than Mother and Father. It’s not at all as bad here as the papers make out, and I can now duck for cover in barely three seconds flat (we have practice drills most every morning)._

_To answer your question, Auntie, Richard is a positive gentleman. Father doesn’t quite approve of him, but, good god, he has never approved of any of my beaus. We have talked of engagement, but – with him heading out to the front – I don’t dare think so permanently. And Uncle, don’t you even think about threatening to rip out his throat. Frederick still won’t look at me, and we have two classes together. It is quite the inconvenience._

_With love,  
_ _Annie_

_***_

_November 10, 1918  
Dear Aunt and Uncle E,_

_Britain has emerged victorious! It is a hale and hearty hurrah for the godly world, and I find that I have never yet been so proud of Her Majesty’s great Empire as I am at this very moment. I have taken quite good care of the Estate during my dear parents’ rather lengthy holiday (this seems to be a family trait), and I have written them and Will to return at once. I hope we shall see you both here at Christmas?_

_Warm Regards,  
_ _Charlie_


	21. The Reasons We're Still Alive

_February 19, 1926_

“You just had to bring us back to the U.S. during Prohibition, didn’t you? God, what are you, a masochist?”

“This city is about as dry as a gushing corpse, Slayer.”

“Ugh. Could you have picked a grosser analogy?”

“Prolly. Gimme a minute.”

“No, thanks.”

Spike chuckled. “More fun to slip it, anyhow.”

“You and I have very different ideas of fun. I just really, really want a stiff drink right now, without worrying about the stupid cops.”

“That was fun last time, Slayer. Can’t say it wasn’t.”

“Again.  _Very_  different ideas of fun, Elly.”

They were limping down a back street in the middle of New York City. Buffy’s long string of pearls was long since gone, used as a makeshift garrote.  _I really liked those pearls_ , she thought grumpily. That really wasn’t the worst of it though. Both she and Spike were absolutely drenched in some kind of hideously smelly yellow slime.

“Bloody glurgg demons,” Spike growled, wiping down his pants. He slung slime with every swipe.

“Watch where you’re flinging that!”

He gave her a look. “Don’t see how it makes sod-all difference, Slayer. You look like you got right dipped in the stuff, same as me.”

Buffy sniffed. “Exactly. I don’t want your slime too.”

He leered at her, framing the bulge in his pants pointedly. “Seem to always like it right enough.”

“Ugh, god, Elly, this is so not the time.”

He laughed at her then, before lapsing into silence for a minute. “How 'bout this, luv. We get ourselves cleaned up, and I take you dancing, yeah?”

That perked her up. She wiped a particular large clump of slime from her hair, smiling slightly. “We can go the jazz club on Seventh?”

“Wherever you like, pet.”

 

***

 

They’d been in New York for almost two years now. It was, Buffy realized, a kind of relief to live somewhere English was the native language again. Oh, she’d picked up plenty of French (seems that had been a useful spend of her time in high school, after all), a bit of terrible Spanish, and bits of even worse Greek, Korean, and Mandarin, but there was something different about being back in the U.S. It felt like home. But home didn’t really exist yet. Heck, the bat-faced cause of her first death wasn’t even in Sunnydale yet. She tried not to think about that too hard. When she did, she felt the unrivaled need to down a bottle of whatever was handy (she’d done that once, four years ago. It was not a pleasant several days after).

Sometimes, Buffy felt that if she paid too much attention to the fact that she was already almost half a century into her vacation, she might just go mad and stake herself. If something ever happened to Spike, she knew it was exactly what she would do. For all that Spike would tell her how  _he_ wouldn’t live without  _her_ , they both knew the opposite was even truer. So they never talked about him dying. Except, sometimes, in the middle of night, she’d tell him the truth. “I need you too much now. You’re my whole life. If you go, there’s nothing left.” Sometimes he simply kissed her or fucked her into silence, not answering. Sometimes he just held her. Sometimes he watched her face with a kind of awed disbelief. Sometimes he was angry. Angry enough to grasp her shoulders in a bone-breaking hold and shake her. “Don’t you even fucking think about it, you bloody suicidal bint. Or I’ll sodding do you in myself.” And then he’d kiss her anyway, or fuck her, until she had apologized enough with her mouth and hands and body that he wasn’t angry anymore.

It was almost funny, really. All those years that he seemed like the reckless vampire, the undead who was always just one step away from permanently dead – it was just another guard. The William she had come to know wanted life more than she could imagine a being wanting life. He certainly wanted it far more than she did. But he was never afraid of not having it; never afraid of risking everything just to feel the most alive in a single moment. When she asked him how he could possibly manage the conflict, he had answered her in poetry (inevitably), saying, “God appears and God is Light to those poor Souls who dwell in Night. But does a Human form display to those who dwell in realms of Day.”

It had taken her an absurd amount of time to realize his answer really boiled down to a few words: “I’m alive with you.” And really, wasn’t that her answer, too?

After they had showered (twice), they ended up at the smallish jazz club on Seventh Street. It didn’t carry the big names, like Louis Armstrong or Ethel Waters, but the music was loud and jaunty and the audience was young. It was the closest she’d come to The Bronze so far. It was also apparently the same place where Spike would briefly recite beatnik poetry before heading off to a whirlwind tour of Italy with Drusilla, in another 25 years or so. Between that hysterical image and the very vivid flapper reality they lived in, the club on seventh street had become one of her very favorite places.

They were dancing now, on the middle of the floor. Buffy had on a short, fringed dress (you could see her legs! God, it’d been ages since she’d been able to wear clothes like this) and her hair was a fashionably short bob. Spike had lamented the loss of her golden locks at first, but she’d just rolled her eyes at him. “Geez, it’ll grow back in a year or two.” Spike was dressed to the height of fashion as well, and he looked absurdly handsome. Like, really, how unfair was it that he looked good in basically everything? In this age, suits were still the thing for men, but they’d grown more fitted and these really, really ridiculously sexy waistcoats were in fashion. Spike’s was a tan shade, complemented by dark slacks and a similarly dark suit coat.

And the most ridiculous part? They were fox-trotting. Was that a word? Whatever. They were dancing the foxtrot.

“At this point, all we need is the stupid cat-reel.”

“It’s quadrille, luv. And we missed that boat last century.”

“Hmph! Well, why didn’t we quadrille then?”

“Wasn’t exactly aware we had a list to meet, Slayer.”

“Well you should’ve been.”

Spike smirked at her as they twirled. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“Next time?”

“Next time you spout a load of sodding things at me.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Put your quim up here and I will.”

“That’s… Jesus, Spike, that’s not only kind of impossible at the moment, it’s also super cheating.”

“Can’t help it that you find me irresistible, luv.”

“Really thought your ego might get over itself in the last fifty years, but I’m really not that lucky, am I?”

“Should know better than that, Slayer.”

“You’re such a pig.”

“You love me.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “You know I can’t say anything stupid to that.”

“You haven’t said anything good so far.”

“I love you, William Ellsworth.” She smiled at him a little nostalgically. “I love you, Spike.”

“Love you, Buffy.”

And then he swept her across the dance floor, in the throes of what she could nowadays identify as the foxtrot.

 

***

 

Their apartment was nearly as small as the one in Paris, but it had an incredible view of some city park Buffy could never remember the name of.

Spike stood behind her, holding her waist in a loose, possessive grip. His chest was pressed tightly against her back.

“Did you just come from the fridge?”

He shrugged against her. “Was peckish, yeah. Summat wrong?”

“Nope. You’re just warm.”

He grunted at that and leaned down with a sigh, his chin resting on her shoulder. She felt his head shift slightly as he glanced the open letter on the table to her left.

“News from the Bits?”

“Annie, this time.”

“Anything good?”

“Just her usual biannual update.”

He nodded against her shoulder in acknowledgement and they lapsed into companionable silence, staring out into the semi-darkened park.

They’d lost touch with Charlie over the years, which – while sad – wasn’t unexpected. Through the tidbits they’d gleamed from William and Charles, Charlie had become a rather prominent politician in the last decade, and had married into an equally prominent family. He was firmly seated in the world of the human and the daylight (not mention the spotlight), and so – when his letters trailed off in 1922 – Buffy didn’t try to write him again. She and Spike had all but forced Charles – and, by extension, Helena and the Bits – into their confidence. There was nothing that said it needed to go further than that.

William’s journey through the years was the most surprising, honestly. He’d met an uncommonly pretty Ano-movic woman while staying with them in Paris (Cirette’s daughter, as a matter of fact) and fallen head over heels. Spike never mentioned it, but Buffy knew he was both equally proud and worried about his namesake’s unerring permanence into the world of things that go bump into the night.

Annie took the middle road. Buffy and Spike still corresponded with her several times a year, and her letters were all equally warm, albeit snarky (“bloody chit takes after her father”) but she never explained to her husband (a witty guy named Thomas; Richard hadn’t made it through the war) or children just why two people younger than herself were nicknamed “Auntie” and “Uncle.”

A sudden shiver ran through her, like an unwelcome guest.

"Alright, luv?"

"Locator spell. Must be a new Slayer." Buffy frowned. "Already."

Spike was quiet for a moment, but she could almost hear him sorting through memories. "Yeah. Remember that. Got all the way to the bloody Sahara, just to find her already come and gone. Dru was miserable to live with for a year after that. Fed her some shaman bloke though. Guess it made her smell colors, or some rot."

Buffy rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see. "What got her?"

"Group of right nasty grimslaws, as I recall. Mage out there was opening hell portals like was Christmas."

Buffy shuddered. She and Spike had come across a nest of the little spider demons in a small Korean village several years back. The image of two swaddled babes having their chests ripped open was likely to stay with her forever. "That's an awful way to go."

Spike didn't reply, and she knew he was thinking of Korea too. Finally, he said, "New one is stateside, I think. Chicago? I'll have to ask Peaches if he ever ran into her, think he was moping in those parts 'round now."

"That explains why the spell felt so strong." Buffy rubbed her arms, trying to flush out the remnants of the all-too-familiar prickles on her skin. It was, she had realized shortly after the fact, an unexpected side effect of the spell that hid her presence from being Located. It had been a simple spell, really (at least, it looked like it, from her end) and far less with the creepy and invasive than Spike's had been. Thank god. Needles were  _so_  not her thing. It likely helped that the witch who'd cast it was their friend, one of their many French contacts. All it had taken was some seriously stinky herbs and a whole slew of chanting, and presto! A blueish-silvery mystical netting had settled over her like a second skin, invisible to anyone who wasn't Sighted. It had, however, itched for months.

"How long does this one last?"

"Few years."

"Well, that's better than the usual, then." Once, she had felt the spell twice within the span of a week. That was the worst time. The best so far had been six years, although she wasn’t sure if it was due to a long-lived Slayer or just the fact that the next ones had all been identified already.

"Yeah."

Buffy sighed. "Will you take me to bed, please, William?"

Spike replied by lifting her effortlessly into his arms, cradling her like a new bride, or a child, and striding to the bedroom. He made love to her slowly that night, intentionally making her feel every single inch of her skin. Giving her no other option but to acknowledge that she was alive. When he was slowly thrusting in her, building up to her third orgasm, Buffy pulled his face down to her neck.

"Bite me."

He shifted into game face without a word, golden eyes watching her unblinkingly. She'd long since stopped thinking of it as strange, this demon face of his. It was powerful, lethal, primal, beautiful. She wondered what her face would look like, if she had one. (She suspected it wouldn't look quite like the one from her nightmares so many years ago, but who knew?)

When Spike seemed content that her request was born of desire, not despair (he'd never bite her when she was in that mood – even when she raged at him for it), he lowered his head to her neck, and the thin blades of his fangs sliced into her skin, fitting perfectly into his years' old scars (ones that very purposely obliterated those given to her by Angel, so many decades ago). The bright, immediate pain of his bite faded after only a moment and transitioned into a familiar kind of warm, throbbing ecstasy as he slowly began to drink, pulling her blood, singing, from her veins. He began to purr then, and the rumbling vibration sent her tumbling right over the edge. Sometimes, between the penetration of cock and fangs, she came so hard she started sobbing. It was one of those nights. Spike just retracted his fangs, rocking her gently on his cock until she got herself under control. Then he continued making love to her – how many times was that tonight? – until she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, curled tightly against his chest.

 

***

 

_March 07, 1927  
Dear Auntie Liz and Uncle Elly,_

_Please come home. Father was taken ill last month and he is yet to get out of bed. The doctors seem to think that he won’t. He asks for you both daily. His body seems to grow frailer by the moment, even as his mind grows more stubborn. I think he is waiting for you. He keeps muttering something about wild dogs. I feel as if that may mean something to you?_

_Please come home._

_Faithfully yours,  
William_

_***_

_April 02, 1927  
Dear Charles,_

_You died yesterday. I don’t know why I’m writing you, except… I don’t know what else to do. I’m in your house, for god’s sake. Where am I even going to mail this stupid letter? It doesn’t really matter though. What matters is that I’m talking to you, even if you can’t reply. I told you to look into immortality, Charles. You should’ve listened. Somehow, the next seventy-ish years seem much darker without you in them._

_I don’t know that I can ever thank you for everything that you did for me. For William. I don’t think there are even words to adequately express everything that I feel right now. How grateful I am. How much I love you. How much my chest hurts. William is drinking. My William, I mean. It seems wrong to call him S. this time. He’s always been William to you. And you helped him become William to me. And my William is heartbroken. We both are. I love you, Charles Delancey. I promise I won’t forget you. Helena is still here, with your children and your grandchildren in tow. If there is at all one thing William and I can do to repay you, it is this: we will keep watch over your family for as long as we live. Really, we couldn’t do anything else. Wild dogs couldn’t drag us away, old boy._

_Love,  
Elizabeth_


	22. A Different Kind of Hell, in the Flesh

_January 12, 1942_

They woke to the sound of gunfire. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it likely be the last. Buffy bolted upright on the small cot, feeling Spike’s cool arms wrap around her waist a moment later.

“It's alright, luv. Just on the street.”

Buffy’s mouth formed a thin line as she willed her wild heart to settle. One of these days, it was just going to break free on its own and go barreling down the street. She didn’t think it would miss her. “That doesn’t really make me feel any better.”

They were in a dark closet. And no, that wasn’t – for once – a euphemism for their tiny apartment. It was legitimately a closet, and not a very big one at that. But it held a cot and their handful of belongings – mostly weapons – and it was hidden, mostly. Hidden in the back room of a bakery, to be specific. The smell of fresh baguette was making her stomach rumble. There was a small plate of pastries by their cot, care of the baker himself – their daily breakfast. Spike tried to get her to stuff them down each morning, with a series of tactics that ranged from wheedling to threatening, but none of it had done any good. She couldn’t seem to keep much anything down these days.

Anger pooled low in her stomach. It was her constant companion. The stupid Nazis had taken her beautiful Paris – her wonderful, magical city – and sent it to hell. But she was familiar with hell. And she was not afraid of hell. But she  _was_  terribly, burningly furious. The sight of the swastika draped down the Eiffel Tower, like some damp shower towel, or a bloody wound, had nearly sent her to her knees the first time. The second time, it made her want to climb the tower and rip the monstrous thing to shreds. Now she just tried not to look at it at all.

She squinted in the dark, wishing for not the first time that she had vampiric night vision. “What time is it?”

“Hour past sunrise.”

“We’d better get going then.”

“Yeah, luv.” A pause. “Eat something?”

“I’m not hungry.”

She heard a sigh. “Least take a bite, Buffy. You need your strength.”

That was the one plea that worked. Sometimes. She swung her legs over the cot and reached semi-blindly for the plate. Something that felt like croissant met her palm, and she took a large, wincing bite, before dropping it back down with a soft clatter.

She heard Spike sigh again, but he didn’t push her to eat anything else. He had learned to stop while he was ahead, at least with regard to Buffy and breakfast.

They rose together in their usual morning ritual, dressing in the dark. It was the same clothing every day, the same rows of buttons, the same war dressing. Her hair went up in a ponytail, held with a wrapping of thin metal wire that could either double as a lock pick or – in a pinch – a garrote. Her low boats laced up tight, with the serrated knife in the left, and the smooth edged knife on the right. Her long skirt buttoned up the back, lined with toughened canvas. It wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it would dull the bite of a small blade. Her loose blouse buttoned up the front, hiding a brassiere with an incredibly tiny single-shot pistol between her breasts. Lastly went a stake tucked into the back of her waistband – more out of habit, than anything else. While a blow to heart would kill many things, it was really not the most effective weapon these days. Not when it was mostly humans they were slaying.

The first time Buffy killed a man, she vomited on her shoes. And it wasn’t even bloody. She had simply thrust her elbow back, into his throat, with maybe half her Slayer strength. He had fallen like a stone, windpipe crushed in an instant. She hadn’t necessarily been trying to kill him, but it wasn’t really an accident, either.

After emptying the contents of her stomach (it was a good thing she barely ate) Buffy had stood and stared down at the man – an SS soldier – for a long moment. He had Xander’s eyes, she decided. And maybe a touch of Giles’s mouth. And William’s nose. She had stood there contemplating the dead man’s face until Spike tugged her away.

Before that, she didn’t think it would have affected her – not like that. How many people had she watched die, or be killed? How many human-esque demons had she herself done in? But it had been so easy. That was the part that was sickening. Her humans, the ones she had been destined to protect once upon a time, were so incredibly fragile. It had never really occurred to her before how easily she could rip them apart. How different she really was from them. Faith had realized it, so many years ago, and it had driven her off the edge. The conflict between her destiny and her choices had been too close. Buffy had a lot more years between the two. Choices had been winning out for the better part of a century by then.  _I choose war._  The spirit guide’s words ran in her ears. _Death is your gift._  And death was everywhere these days. _I choose death._

Buffy shrugged on her wool coat with a helping hand from Spike, and they exited the closet after a quick moment of listening at the door. Their shelter supplied the German soldiers with their morning meals – the only reason it was still open at all. The baker was fiercely proud that he could offer them shelter right under the Germans’ noses. He said it kept a smile on his face when he felt like poisoning the dough. For now, they heard only the baker inside, loitering by the front case.

They were out the back door of the bakery and onto the cobblestoned streets a minute later. It was snowing. Once, this would have made her squeal with delight. Now she simply paused for a moment, face upturned, letting the cold wind settle on her face. When she glanced down again, Spike was watching her steadily with something equally loving and sad. She touched his cheek briefly and then took his arm. They hurried down the street.

“Do you remember our wedding?” Buffy asked suddenly.

He gave her a curious, wary look. “’Course I do. Not summat I’m likely to forget, luv. Not that I’d want to.”

She nodded distantly. The snow was really coming down. It was easy to forget that the cobblestones were streaked in shadows and blood this way. “Do you remember what you said to me?”

Spike understood immediately. Of course he did. “That I’d follow you into hell every day for a thousand years and never regret it, Buffy.”

“Do you regret it yet?”

He pulled them to an abrupt stop and put both hands on her shoulders, blue gaze piercing through her like burning steel. “Not for a sodding second.” Then he released her and they started walking again, only this time he gripped her hand in his. In the cold of January, it felt warm. He’d held her the same way the first time they jumped into hell, an unbreakable grip. A promise.  _I’m here._  He was saying it again now, in the language they both knew best. She squeezed him back, and heard the slight sound of relief, of love, that escaped his throat.  _I’m here, too._

Their walk to the small office building down the street was uneventful, even though every swastika-ed arm she passed made her throat burn.

The office held a small front lobby, with a staircase to the right. The receptionist glanced at them only briefly as they entered, head leaning back down to her desk without a word. Spike and Buffy ignored her equally, in turn, and took the stairs (stairs that had exactly twenty-two steps), down to an innocuous wooden door. Innocuous and locked. Spike pulled out his key and slid it in. They opened the door to find a pistol in their faces; it lowered immediately.

“Bonjour, Général.”

Buffy nodded at the man – well, demon. Emile was a Ritzai, and was very passably human, unless he was in the wrong light, or turned to just the wrong angle. Most of the time, he looked like a middle-aged man with a thick build and a cragged face.

"Bonjour, Emile. Ça va?"

He gave her a brief, slightly sardonic smile as he stepped back a few steps and holstered his pistol. "Ça va." It was the standard reply - the equivalent of the English "How are you? / Fine" but – true to French character – it was literally "It goes? / It goes." It was a wartime greeting if there ever was one.

Emile led them down another short flight of steps, this one opening into a wide, tall space – not unlike an underground gymnasium. There were wide tables along one side, employed as work benches, or reading tables, or beds. The armory was to the left, the oddest collection of modern and ancient. The space in the far back was left clear, long rugs covering the concrete in a bastardized version of her training room from The Magic Box. There were a dozen figures scattered around, lounging, working, sleeping.

"Auntie! Uncle!"

William was striding toward them. If Buffy squinted a little, he looked just like Charles. Sometimes that threw her for a complete loop, until he opened his mouth, and the voice was all wrong. His voice unerringly revealed him to be their oldest Bit. And he, like all the others, was getting older. William had aged gracefully into his mid-fifities, and was a handsome, lean man, slightly taller than Spike, but not by much. Since this last year, though, William’s face had held a dark gauntness that she knew was never likely to fade. Not since Michael – their Bit’s eldest son – had been shot dead in the street, with only so much care as Buffy might have once given to dusting a vampire.

William, his wife Rosie, and their four children had moved to Paris in 1932, despite every discouragement and warning that Buffy and Spike knew how to give. Telling them of Paris’s future in fact had the opposite effect of the one they expected. It made William even more certain that he wanted to go. And he did. And when he joined the war effort at its infancy, they knew he would be throwing himself into danger with or without them. And they had promised, after all. It was another in a long line of swears. But this one was to Charles, and that put it right at the top of the list.

“You Brits and your stupid sense of duty and honor," Buffy had sighed as they packed for Paris in 1938.

Spike had just given her a look. “Oh, right. Because the Chosen One, One Girl in All the Sodding World, is just a bloody lay-about.”

"I'm sure she's not," she had said steadily. And she wasn't. The then-current Slayer had been a German girl, a good Hitler Youth eventually turned double agent (no doubt with some encouragement from the Council). There was something morbidly comforting about knowing that even the active Slayer, her sister-in-arms, had deemed the war atrocious enough for it to bleed into Slayer jurisdiction. Or, at least, it  _had_  been comforting, until the Slayer had been found out and executed by the Gestapo, in May of 1941. It was just another nail in the head of destiny versus choice. Buffy didn't know where the current Slayer was, but she didn't have the energy to bother trying to find out, and Spike didn't remember. It was really the least of their worries.

She hated everything about this war. About what it was. About what it had done. About what she knew it would yet do. And the greatest irony of it all was that she was actually good at it. Good at being General Buffy. It was Rosie's fault for her nickname. Buffy had been in top speechmaking mode, all Slayer face and uncompromising words, trying to spur their little group before a dangerous mission. Rosie had just given her a small, vicious grin and said, “Oui, Général. Nous vous suivrons.”  _We will follow you._  And they had.

To be fair, most of what they did wasn’t slaying. It was “get piece of information A to point B. And don’t get caught. And don’t die.” The first usually precluded the last. Hitler had recently instituted some German monstrosity that translated to “Night and Fog,” and any Parisians suspected of resistance had been steadily disappearing from the streets since. The threat wasn’t quite as terrifying to a group that thrived in the dark.

Buffy glanced around at their little band, all hell-bent (was that an appropriate usage when you were already there?) on ending the occupation of their home. This was, in its total, La Résistance Démoniaque, the “LRD.” The greatest surprise was that they weren’t all actually peaceful demons (if anyone could be called peaceful anymore). Besides the traditionally evil Ritzai Emile, and a Kungai named Alphons, two vampires had joined them once word had reached the demon community, a mated pair. And wasn’t that the kicker? Somehow, even evil demons were less evil than this.

She knew that the vampire pair, Albert and Mathilde, could feel her – that she tripped their senses with bright Slayer-y warning. But they never said a word, beyond initial shocked murmurs to one another of “Une autre Tueuse?”  _Another Slayer?_

They didn’t bag it, but, then, neither did Spike. Animal meat wasn’t exactly plentiful in occupied Paris, and so then, neither was animal blood. Spike drank from her. Or he drank from Germans.

In for a penny, in for a pound, right? (It was a testament to how much British she’d absorbed, that the phrase actually made sense instead of making her wonder how money and weight went together.) And Buffy was betting the whole bank these days. Because, really, in the end, what was the difference between slaying Nazis and feeding from them? At least one served the good purpose of filling her husband’s belly.

William reached them and grasped Spike in his usual clasping of arms. He briefly hugged Buffy. “You’re late.”

Spike snorted. “Who could bloody tell, with all the sodding clocks wrong?”

That had been of the weird, for sure. The Nazis had reset every single public clock to Berlin time, as if they could will the city into a German doppelgänger through temporal confusion.

William gave Spike a familiar sideways look (god, was that hereditary or something?). “If that’s all it takes to confound a vampire's sense of time, it's a wonder you didn't go barmy immediately upon arrival in London."

"That's assuming Elly has ever been sane," Buffy put in dryly.

Spike glared at them both.

William grinned, a sweet, lop-sided grin. Buffy had a sudden, vivid recollection of that same grin almost fifty years ago, lighting the face of an ecstatic little boy who'd just been given a brand new chess set. Like the confused Paris clocks, time had made Buffy's memories incredibly freaksome. When had fifty years started feeling like yesterday?

"We've had a communication from the informants in Nice. There’s to be a large contingent of SS Officers making their way north to us.” William’s mouth twisted. “For a bloody holiday.”

“Any big names?”

“A few.”

Buffy bit her lip. "Let the human Resistance follow up."

It was a delicate, illusory balance they played with. What might have a significant impact on the timeline? What could they get away with being involved in? At this point, there were no real guarantees that they hadn't already changed something significant. Maybe they would turn into the world without shrimp because of it. But she and Spike had agreed years ago that to worry about every single moment simply led to madness. More importantly, the hesitation could get them killed. So they shrugged and muddled forward as best they could. Buffy could just picture Giles wringing his hands nearly every other day, warning her of impending doom because of this decision or that. But Giles was still another sixty years away. And the war was now.

Spike was glancing around, carefully eying Albert as the vampire sharpened an axe. “Any news from Annie?”

William sighed. “None. Still.”

None of them said anything to that. Annie had tried to write as regularly as could be possible through an occupied France, carefully saying nothing of importance, but still writing. Since the most recent London bombings, everything had fallen into silence. The first Great War, having been incredibly merciful to the Delanceys, was apparently trying to be made up by the second.  _If I ever get ahold of you, you PTB bastards, I’m going to stick you in a torpedo and make sure it fires._

 

***

 

They stood outside a factory, in a dark alley. Spike was pacing, and she knew he was itching for a cigarette. They were hard to come by these days, unless you bartered them on the black market.

“Bloody fucking submarine,” he was muttering.

Buffy bit back a sudden, rare smile. “You never did tell me how you ended up in there.”

He pursed his lips and gave her a stern look. “Never you mind.”

She knew that look. It meant it had been something particularly embarrassing. She’d get it out of him eventually, when they weren’t in the middle of a mission. “So what about the submarine?”

He sighed, running a hand through his tousled curls. He’d kept dyeing them, to her surprise. When she’d asked him why, he’d just said that it made him look less like his other self. “Was blind, yeah? Couldn’t even fucking tell Peaches was having an act.”

“Still losing me over here.”

“Thought he was on my side, yeah? Ended up taking a swim to shore, and hoping I got there before the sun.”

Buffy frowned at him. It had taken her several decades, but she was slowly getting better at frantic Spike-speak. A lack of nicotine and whisky was definitely not helping his coherency these days. “So… what? You’re afraid we’re you in this scenario? If Mathilde says we can trust the contact, then we can trust them.”

Spike scoffed at her. “Oh, yeah, luv. Evil vampire. Very trustworthy.”

“I seem to remember a certain evil vampire being very put out that I didn’t trust him.”

He grinned at her suddenly. “Wasn’t evil by then, but appreciate the sentiment.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “They’ll come through.”

As if to prove her point, the factory door squeaked open a moment later, a skeletal red-eyed Kwaini woman peaking through the dark at them. She blinked rapidly and motioned, with a hissing whisper. “Entrez! Entrez!”  _In! In!_

Spike stopped pacing immediately and hefted two large duffel bags from the ground, tossing one to Buffy.

Buffy threw the bag over her shoulder and ducked inside the offered door. “Où sont les autres?”  _Where are the others?_

The Kwaini just motioned her and Spike inward and then shut the door as quickly as possible. There were no lights in the factory and Buffy found herself initially blinded. Oh god, what if Spike was right? But she felt the vampire himself behind her a moment later, comfortingly pressed against her back. His calm reassured her.

The Kwaini let out an impatient, “Ils attendent,”  _They’re waiting_ , and then brushed forward in the dark. Spike led, his hand holding hers firmly in the dark as she stumbled forward.

They walked for what seemed like ages, turning in dizzying motions, until Buffy finally spied a small light ahead. They were, she saw at last, on the edges of a large maker space. Dozens of rows of short, benched tables led into the dark, abandoned until morning. A small section of the LRD waited there: Alphons, Mathilde, and Julienne (their Bit’s second eldest child).

Alphons nodded at her sharply, the horn on his forehead bobbing. “General,” he said lowly, in heavily accented English. “The armory storage is at the other side. Six guards.”

“What are they doing?”

“Betting, looks like,” Mathilde offered, with a chuckle. She was in game face, and her golden eyes were feral.

Spike’s gaze grew interested. “Betting? What for?”

“Cigarettes.”

Spike’s face lit up. “It’s my lucky day, then.” He shifted into game face abruptly. “Blood and smokes in the same night.”

The Kwaini woman watched them with pursed lips, her red eyes narrowed in annoyed confusion at the English. “Dépêchez-vous! Les gardes vont bientôt changer.”  _Hurry! The guards change soon._

Buffy nodded at her briefly. “Merci.” She nodded to her team. “You know what to do.”

Julienne grinned. She was dressed provocatively for the era, in a very short dress and heels, her lips painted crimson. William had taken one look at her and promptly turned around, face flushed bright red. “Good lord. Julie, don’t let your mother see.”

“Watch and learn, Auntie dearest,” Julie said now with a low purr (god, Elly was such a bad influence) and sashayed into the dark, taking a small candle of light with her.

The rest of them followed at a distance in the dark, the vampires leading the way. The Kwaini woman stayed behind, smartly.

As they approached the armory storage, which was a large padlocked space, they saw that the guards were indeed betting. The soldiers – all probably younger than Buffy had once been – sat around a rickety wooden table, cigarettes piling in the center as they surveyed their cards. The men jumped up with startled shouts at Julie’s arrival, reaching for their pistols. However, the sight of her pegged her as a “horizontal collaborator” (ugh), and the men quickly reholstered their weapons and stood around her eagerly, murmuring phrases of encouragement in broken French. Buffy, rather unfortunately in this moment, had gotten rather good at French in the last few years, and caught far more of their suggestions than she really wanted to. Beside her, Spike growled lowly.

“Reel it in, Elly,” Buffy murmured. “Or I’ll make you stay back the same way I did William.”

He subsided, contenting himself with staring blackly at the soldiers. One was very boldly reaching a hand up Julie’s skirt. “ _That_  one is mine,” he said flatly.

Alphons shifted restlessly beside her. “Now, General?”

Buffy watched the men for another moment. “Now,” she agreed, dropping the duffel bag and pulling the knives from her boots. And with that, she sent one flying directly at the closest soldier. It landed in his chest with no more than a startled breath, and he dropped.

For a single second, the remaining men froze in bewildered horror. Julie took the opportunity to pull the pistol from one of them, then elbowed him in the face.

It was all a bit wild after that. Spike leapt forward with a snarl and latched onto his claimed soldier, burying his fangs deep into the man’s throat, nearly ripping it all the way out. The man screamed, his high-pitched cries fading into a gurgle as Spike drained him dry. Buffy tried not to look, punching her soldier in the face. Beside her, she could hear more cries as Mathilde enjoyed her own dinner. Alphons was roaring, 300 pounds of demonic fury, as he impaled another man against the armory gate. There were maybe eight shots fired in total, mostly fired at the beings who could have cared less. Buffy’s mark was fumbling for his own weapon when she kicked him in the chest and sent him stumbling to the ground. He crawled backward into the dark, face blank with terror as he caught the full extent of the ongoing carnage.

“Warum?” he whispered hoarsely in thick German, through a bleeding nose.  _Why?_

Buffy flipped next to him with a single, smooth movement, and grabbed his head in both her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, and yanked his head sharply to the side, spine cracking viciously. He fell to the ground, limp.

And then it was over.

Mathilde dropped her lifeless meal with a delighted smile, blood dripping down her chin. “C'est amusant, non?”

Alphons rumbled agreement, carefully cleaning gore from his horn.

Spike was watching Buffy neutrally, his game face dropped. His face was still smeared with blood.

Julie spoke up from where she was carefully ridding the soldiers of their personal affects. “Necessary,” she said with a shrug.

Buffy turned away, looking at the gate padlock with absolute focus. Necessary? Not really. But they were monsters, after all. Buffy ripped at the padlock viciously, crushing the chains beneath her fingers. The metal shards bit into her skin and blood trickled down her fingers. Even her. Maybe  _especially_  her. “We don’t have much time. Move it.”

They all worked silently after that. Both duffel bags were emptied of their contents and refilled with armory spoils. The contents themselves – sticks of dynamite and gun powder – were placed strategically around the armory and compound. Spike had gathered all the cigarettes and stuffed them lovingly into his coat. As they exited the factory, Alphons bringing up the rear with a trail of gunpowder, Spike lit one and took a long, satisfied pull.

“Been too bloody long,” he sighed. Then he flicked the cigarette to the ground, right in the middle of the gunpowder.

They all ran.

A series of explosions rocketed after them, the darkened streets of Paris almost as bright as day for several, infinite seconds. Spike took her hand as they ran, holding her tightly, confidently. She could feel him trembling though. He never said anything after he killed, but she knew he half-expected that she’d stake him for it, each and every time. She was long past that. In French, Slayer translated truthfully to “killer,” and it wasn’t wrong.  _I’d have to stake me, too, Spike._

So Buffy just held his hand in return and ran into the night. And even though she knew the war would end some year soon, right now it felt like an eternity.


	23. Just the Holiday-iest

_July 5, 1959_

“Get out of the bloody water before you turn into sodding prunes!”

Giggles were Spike’s only reply.

The vampire turned to her with bright annoyance. “Disrespectful Bits. No proper fear for their elders.”

Buffy watched him with an unsympathetic, amused gaze. They were lounging by the pool, bright summer sun pouring on their faces. And Buffy was finally,  _finally_ wearing something that looked like an actual swimsuit. Thank god. “Think it’s a little hard to strike terror in the hearts of children when you let them cover you in make-up, Elly.”

Spike scowled at her, wiping at his face. “Bloody hell. Thought I got all of that off.”

Buffy giggled and swiped at the corner of his jaw, by his ear. “Still some lipstick there.”

He sighed and tugged the beach towel out from behind him to make another pass at his face.

Buffy giggled again, and Spike looked at her fondly from behind the towel. She knew exactly what was he was thinking without him saying it.  _It’s good to hear you laugh, luv._ God knew Spike’d had to deal with a decade of very little Buffy laughter after the war (not that he’d been in much of a jolly mood himself), and she knew how the years had strained him. How could they not? They’d nearly  _killed_  her. Sometimes she still woke up to the imagined sound of gunfire. In another several decades, she knew, doctors would have a name for the shadows of war that haunted her:  _Post Traumatic Stress Disorder_. But for now, she just slogged through it, along with half the world. A million years ago, she remembered watching those “old” tv shows (wasn’t that ironic, these days?) and wondering how in the world it was so normal for everyone and their brother to drink at all times of day, and pretty much everywhere. Now she understood perfectly.

There was a small splash as one of the Bits (well, a Bit’s Bit’s Bit, really – god, that was going to get absurdly lengthy and confusing in another generation) abandoned the pool and wandered over to them with a shy smile. It was Moira-Jean, one of Annie’s many grandchildren. The little girl was just passing four, and she had decided that Auntie Liz and Uncle Elly were her current favorite people. The same had happened with most of the Bits throughout the years – a phase of childlike affection that eventually faded as something else caught their attention. Buffy had learned to take advantage of it was while it was there.

“Listening to your Uncle, Mo? That’s a dangerous decision.”

Spike mock-growled at her.

Mo giggled and climbed onto Buffy’s lap on the sun chair. Buffy drew her into her arms, accepting that she was going to get uncomfortably damp. The little’s girl hair was a strawberry blonde, like her mother’s, and she had a rather ridiculous set of dimples.  _Her dad is going to have to beat the guys off with a stick._  Mo nestled easily into her side, fingers playing with Buffy’s long-again tresses. Her little fingers found her neck, and Buffy knew when they landed on Spike’s bite marks by the sudden sharp jolts that ran through her.

“You match,” Mo said firmly, with a very serious expression, one hand on each side of Buffy’s neck.

Spike made a small sound of distress and turned away. They never talked about the scars on the right side of her neck – the ones that almost perfectly matched the ones on her left. Only, the right ones were feeding marks. War marks. Spike had refused to sully his love bites in Paris, to pollute an act that was – for them both – one of the most intimate things they could share. So he fed from her on the right, and never in bed. And never again after the war.

Buffy gently removed Mo’s hands and kissed them playfully. “Always have to match, Mo-mo. Isn’t that what your mom reminds you about your socks?”

“Socks are stupid.”

“Well, I don’t disagree. But they are kind of useful.”

“Hmph.” It was such a familiar sound that Buffy couldn’t help but smile. She glanced over to Spike, on the sun chair next to her. He was still turned away, and his breathing had grown erratic. Buffy gently set the little girl down to the ground. “I bet your mom has a snack waiting for you in the house.”

With a delighted squeal, Mo abandoned them for the inside, clumsily fumbling with the sliding door. It was into a modern house that Mo disappeared, replacing what had once been Charles’s very respectable, sprawling manor. It still weirded her out, to come down the street (in a car instead of a carriage these days) and find something so… new… in place of the building that held some of her very favorite memories. But the bombings in London had spared very little, including Annie. After the war, William and the remains of his family had connected with her children, and brought them into the “family secret.”

William had attempted to do the same with Charlie, but his younger brother had very kindly told him to shove off. Charlie and family were rarely available, but when they were, it was very obviously when Buffy and Spike were not. William took far more offense to it than Buffy or Spike did. “Is his choice, Bit,” Spike had said. “We’re not real family, and we  _are_  bumps in the bloody night.” William had drawn himself up – looking very commanding, even as an old man. “You’re  _my_  family, Uncle. As you were father’s. That’s not up for negotiation, old boy.”

But really, Buffy thought, two of out three wasn’t bad. It was more than she ever thought there would be. At best, she had predicted the Delanceys would all eventually pull away, and Buffy and Spike would be left to watch over them from the shadows. She’d never really expected to be here, in the backyard, watching the newest Bits splash in the pool.

“Spike.”

He hesitated a moment before he turned to look at her, and she caught the edges of shadow that he was trying to hide. “You’re going to have to forgive yourself for them someday.” She rolled her eyes. “Especially since there’s nothing to forgive. I asked you to.”

“And I should’ve refused.”

“You needed the blood.”

“Should’ve eaten more sodding Germans.”

The argument seemed to go like this every time. Buffy sighed. “I’d give you everything I have of me, Elly. Happily. A little bit of life was nothing.” She paused and met his eyes squarely, daring him to break her gaze. He wouldn’t, she knew. “And knowing you were alive – that I was helping keep you alive – kept me alive, too.”

He growled. “It weakened you.”

She gestured to her sun-soaked body. “Seem to have made it out just fine, William.”

“ _You’re not food_!”

And that was the heart of it. She knew that him feeding like that somehow made her an echo of all the lives he’d taken, all the nameless, faceless meals he’d glutted on, all the Nazis he’d slaughtered. It was something neither of them had time to even consider during the war, but plenty of time after to do just that. It wasn’t guilt that haunted him, but it  _was_ immense pain. Somehow, Spike had crossed an internal line during the war, and she wasn’t sure what it was. Vampires fed from each other all the time, out of love or necessity or cruelty. But maybe, she considered in sudden realization, that was exactly the problem. They fed from each other. Spike could take from her – he could drain her dry if he wanted to – and yet she couldn’t do the same for him. It made her a victim. It made him a monster. And in a way he didn’t ever want to be one.

“You fed me, you know,” she said, finally.

He stared at her, but not in confusion. It confirmed her suspicions.

“Every single morning, you tried to feed me. And don’t think I didn’t know who browbeat Julie into bringing me dinner more times than I could count.”

His face crumbled. “Buffy…”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “And you fed me in lots of other ways, too. By loving me. By being there. I wouldn’t have made it out of the war without you, Elly. Not as more than a shell.” She pulled herself to the edge of the sun chair and took his hands in hers, caressing his thumb. “We kept each other fed.”

Spike let out an explosive breath and brought their intertwined hands to his lips, where he kissed her fingers slowly. When he looked back at her, a wearied smile was tugging on his lips. “Know just the thing to say, luv.”

“Must’ve gotten it from you.”

He smiled tenderly at her, then glanced back at the pool. “Should round up the Bits, yeah? Almost dinner.”

Buffy grinned mischievously as she rose, not missing the admiring look Spike gave her body. He’d missed actual swimsuits, too. “Or we could join them,” she said slyly, then took off sprinting for the pool.

Spike followed her a half heartbeat later, laughing, and they leapt into the pool with only a quick shout of warning for the little Bits.

That was where Edith (Moira’s mother) found them an hour later, each with an armful of giggling children. She gave them both a look that would’ve made Joyce proud, although she was clearly trying not to smile. “I asked you two to do one thing.”

Spike grinned charmingly at her. “Cut us some slack, yeah? We’re on holiday.”

“Oh? From what, exactly? Your other holiday?”

“Got it in one, luv.”

Edith laughed. “You’re impossible, Uncle. Now, be a dear and round up the kids.”

“Right o', pet.”

 

***

 

The last vampire crumbled to ash. Buffy gave a small sound of satisfaction, sharing a grin with a game-faced Spike. They were in some very old mausoleum, the now-former home of a rather large nest of vamps they’d found after dinner with the Delanceys. Unfortunately, they hadn’t caught the vampires before  _their_  dinner.

Buffy and Spike had no more than started to settle the poor bodies into more dignified positions when Buffy’s neck began to tingle in an uncomfortable not-quite-but-almost vampire way. Spike apparently felt it too, and, as one, they turned toward the mausoleum door.

“Oh, you have  _got_  to be bloody kidding me!”

A young, tawny-haired girl stood in the doorway. And she was leveling a crossbow at them.

Buffy just stared at her for a long moment, before turning to glare at Spike. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a Slayer in London, Elly?!”

He threw her an irritated glance, keeping one eye on their new arrival. “Didn’t know, did I? Was in Italy round now, wasn’t paying attention at the mo’.”

“Ugh.”

The Slayer in the doorway cleared her throat, and Buffy and Spike snapped their attention back to her. “You two seem quite unconcerned that I’m about to slay you,” she said with a raised brow, her voice a softly accented British. She looked almost offended. God, Buffy thought, the girl couldn’t be more than sixteen. Another thought struck her, and she looked at the Slayer, puzzled. “You think you can dust me?”

The Slayer scoffed at her. She was a tall girl, built a little like what Buffy imagined Dawn would someday be, if she ever grew into her limbs. “You’re hardly my first vampire.”

“That’s not what I mean. I feel like a vampire to you?”

Now the Slayer was looking at her like she was crazy. “Of course.”

Huh. That was different. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered what exactly “her demon holding her a bit tighter” actually entailed. And when had  _she_  been able to feel Slayers? But she was distracted from any further thoughts by the sharp whizzing of a cross bolt as it barely missed her shoulder.

Spike snarled, fangs descending. “ _You bloody bitch_. You do that again and I’ll drain you dry.”

The Slayer shrugged as she reloaded her crossbow. “Not interested in further conversation, vampire.”

Buffy sighed. “We can’t kill her, Elly.”

“Well, she’s bloody well trying to kill us!”

“Christ, Elly. She’s been a Slayer for, what – maybe a year?”

The Slayer sniffed at them and aimed the crossbow again. “Two.”

Buffy and Spike scattered immediately. The Slayer obviously hadn’t been expecting that, without any preamble, but she hadn’t seen the constant non-verbal conversation. The head tilt from Spike in warning.  _She’s about to fire, luv._  The flick of fingers from Buffy.  _Opposite sides. Now._

“She’s blocking our exit, luv.”

“So help me knock her out!”

The girl dropped her crossbow and hefted a rather wicked looking mace from the ground beside her instead. Another day, Buffy would have admired it. It looked old – likely a Watcher heirloom. Right now it was just annoying.

With an irritated growl, Buffy flew at the Slayer, knocking her straight in the chest with a well-placed kick and sending her stumbling back into the open cemetery grounds. The girl’s back slammed into a headstone, but – to her credit – she came up swinging.

Buffy ducked a shot meant to remove her neck from her shoulders and punched the Slayer in the nose.  _Her Watcher should have taught her to defend her face better. Idiot._ “Sorry,” Buffy said between feints and blows, “but you’re really not giving me a choice.”

The girl snorted at her as she swung her mace at Buffy’s face in turn. “I’m not in the habit of letting vampires dally about. My position is rather meant for exactly the opposite, as a matter of fact.”

“Right cheeky chit,” Spike commented calmly from a few feet away. He was pacing by the mausoleum, smoking, still carefully in game face. Now that they were out in the open, he seemed content to let Slayer business stay between Slayers.

Buffy ducked the mace and swiped at the girl’s legs, sending her sprawling to the ground. “Think it’s a PTB requirement,” she huffed.

The Slayer leapt to her feet in a smooth motion, looking incredibly off-put. “You are a very odd vampire.”

Buffy shrugged. “Can say that again.” Then she round-house kicked the girl square in the chest, sending the mace flying. The Slayer scrambled to her feet and drew a stake from her waistband. Spike chuckled at that.

“Would you stop playing with her already, Slayer?”

The girl blinked at him, pausing for the barest moment. “You  _want_  me to kill your mate?”

Buffy took the opportunity hesitation afforded and slammed her fist into the Slayer’s temple. The girl dropped like a rock, out cold. “He wasn’t talking to you.”

Spike strode over, and they both stood looking at the unconscious Slayer. “Hardly a challenge, that one.”

“I kind of have a lot of years on her, Elly.”

“Nah, not just that. Moves were all lifted straight from the bleeding Handbook. No creativity at all.”

Buffy sighed. “I did notice that. It’ll probably be what gets her killed.”

They both examined the Slayer in silence.

“What should we do with her, pet? As good as if we killed her, to leave her here.”

Buffy bit her lip. “Let’s put her back in the mausoleum. With it being an established nest, chances are good no other baddies will bother it, at least for tonight.”

“Bit morbid, luv. ‘Specially with the bodies and all.”

“Do you have a better idea? It’s not like we can drop her off on her Watcher’s doorstep.”

“Mausoleum it is, Slayer.”

They settled the unconscious Slayer on top of a handy sarcophagus, as comfortably as they could manage.

“Poor chit’s gonna have a right beastly headache when she wakes,” Spike observed as they shut the mausoleum door and headed back into the night.

“I wasn’t exactly pulling my punch, Elly. So sue me.”

He blinked at her with a sudden grin. “Wasn’t criticizing, luv. Was a compliment.”

“Oh. Well, thanks, then.” She sighed. “Ugh. Guess this means our holiday away from our holiday is over.”

Spike took her hand. “I like our first holiday plenty well enough.”

Buffy smiled at him, meeting tender, twinkling blue eyes. It still amazed her that anyone’s eyes could be as expressive as his – could say as much without any words at all.  _I love you. I love travelling with you. I’m going to fuck you silly in a new place very soon._  “Me too.”


	24. In Which Lines Are Much With the Blurred

_August 28, 1976_

Buffy had pink hair. She wasn’t really sure how it happened (okay, she was – there had definitely been multiple hours at the hair dresser involved), but golden locks had given sway to florescent pink ones in the last year. Sometimes she even spiked her long tresses up in a gigantic mohawk, just for the hell of it. It went well with the clothes, anyway. Black fishnets and leather jackets had become staples in her wardrobe, to Spike’s shocked delight. And if she’d realized exactly how much studded leather collars would turn him on, she’d have decorated herself in them ages ago. As it was, she always kept a pair of spare stockings in her purse whenever they went out for a concert, because, inevitably, one would get ripped to shreds before they could even get to the venue. It had become a sort of game lately, guessing how long Spike could hold out against himself once they left the apartment. His shortest so far had been thirty seconds (they fucked against the outside of their door, breaking said door in the process. Oops) and the longest had been nineteen minutes (that had been one of their funnier adventures, although they’d gotten kicked out of the cab halfway through. Spike had just hauled her into a darkened alley and they’d finished against a wall).

Sometimes she took a wicked pleasure in dressing up around their apartment, too – a spacious affair in downtown Minneapolis – although she rarely got anything done that required clothes if she did. And the clothes, honestly, were a large part of the fun. She’d cut out images of the latest punks in New York and pasted them on the fridge, for inspiration. She often wished she could be back in the city (now that it wasn’t the stupid Prohibition) and join the major punk happenings, but that was out of the question for obvious reasons that were mainly Spike shaped. Still, this odd spot in the American Midwest had a thriving early punk scene. Buffy had seen The Suicide Commandos fourteen times. “I’ve created a monster,” Spike was fond of her telling her, with equal parts exasperation and pride.

Ever since the start of the “British Invasion” (and after everything, didn’t that just seemed like the most freaksome thing to name a music movement?), Spike had started toting around a massive (and mounting) stack of LP’s. At this point, the records now had two entire suitcases to themselves. It was absurd. Even her gorgeous emerald engagement ring (the one that had lived in Spike’s pocket for two years) was shut up in a vault in Switzerland, along with pretty much everything else of value they wanted to keep over the years. But it made her vampire ridiculously happy to have his stacks of records, so she didn’t tease him about it. Too often. She  _did_  make sure he carried the suitcases.

In all fairness, though, he had warned her about this era. She found him one afternoon in 1961, listening to The Beatles’s new hit  _Love Me Do_ , nearly bouncing with glee.

“Someone giving away free blood?”

He had pulled her into his arms, driving her into a whirling, merry dance. “Better.” He grinned at her. “Brilliant music is coming, luv. Hope you’re ready to spend the next decade or two at concert halls.”

And they’d really been doing just that.

To both Spike and Buffy’s surprise, Buffy liked punk rock more than he did. It was every bit about freedom from the system, breaking all the complex, broken garbage, and bringing out something simple and rollicking and fierce. It was ugly, it was loud, it was tenacious. She couldn’t get enough of it.

This time around – while Spike seemed to enjoy the novelty of the second rise of his once-favorite genre – his tastes had migrated into all sorts of weird and unexpected corners. She dragged him to every tiny punk jam session. He dragged her to experimental music concerts. Or to something that vaguely seemed like funk, or hip-hop.

They had been at one such concert the night before, and were trying for a quiet day in. She was sorting the oh-so-with-the-abandoned stack of mail, when Spike wandered over with a steaming mug of blood.

“Bloody ancient radarange. Half the damn cup’s still ice.”

“Told you we should pay the landlord to put in one of the new microwaves.” She gave him a look. “Or you could just heat it on the stove.”

He sniffed at her. “Miss the smell of burning blood that much, do you?”

“It wouldn’t burn if you wouldn’t walk away from it, Elly.”

“ _Someone_  likes to distract me.”

She gave him a look of pure Buffy innocence. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Impossible woman.”

She winked at him, then went back to the mail. Her hair was down today and was making itself an incredible nuisance, swinging right into her line of vision. Really, who could be expected to deal with the mail like that?  _I know I have a stupid hair tie here somewhere_. She found one in the living room, and victoriously bound her hair back before heading back to her most-hated task at the desk.

Spike was glancing at the mail now, looking pointedly at an opened envelope that was absolutely smothered in lace. “Another wedding invite?”

“Mhmm.”

He sighed. “Bloody hell. Feel as if half our life is damn weddings, these days.”

“The trials of a large family, Elly.”

Spike grunted, pulling the invitation out with a grimace. He stiffened as he scanned it, looking up at her warily. “You read this one?”

“Um, I scanned it, just to see which Bit and when. It’s Ellen, right?”

“Yeah, luv. But look at the groom.”

Buffy leaned over to read the black and white laced creation.  _Please join us in celebrating the marriage of Ellen Louise Young and Martin Alastair Giles._

“Oh, shit.” She and Spike stared at each other helplessly. “You don’t think… God, this won't mess with Giles's history, will it?”

Spike snorted. “Not that bloody lucky.”

“Elly…”

Spike sighed and tossed the invite back down. “Loads of Gileses, yeah? Likely a distant cousin or summat. Besides, we still remember him alright. Has to mean we haven't bolloxed it.”

“I hope so.”

“Not much we can really do, luv, unless we want to go break up a wedding.”

“I kind of like having the Delanceys on speaking terms.”

“Well, then, looks like we’ll have our bloody Watcher in the family.”

“That could complicate things… a lot.” She bit her lip. “This Martin could even  _be_  a Watcher. And the last thing we need is for the Council to know I’m floating around. Or that there are two of you.”

Spike furrowed his brow. “We’ll give Julie a ring, yeah? Have her chat with her daughter about her piss poor taste in men.”

Buffy gave him a look, and he chuckled.

“Should have a chat, though. The bloke’s from a Watcher family, so won’t come as a surprise to know there’s demon in the family.”

“Do you mean us or them?”

He shrugged. “Both, yeah? Bit’s still a pretty part demon herself. And not the only one.” That much was true. Most of the Delanceys had married back into humanity over the years, but a few had followed into William’s footsteps and delved into the supernatural. Family reunions had gotten rather interesting the last few decades.

“Don’t you think she would have told her future husband about that? Besides, it doesn’t explain us.”

“Not a far leap, to say some relatives far back got vamped.”

“And we’re the nice kind of vampires who don’t eat our relatives? And who can magically hang out in the sun? Not to mention, one of us does actually have a pulse.”

He sighed. “We’ll figure summat, alright?”

“Alright. Let’s call her.”

 

***

 

It was some hours later, after the settling of early evening, and Buffy had the radio cranked up. She was belting out her newest favorite punk song as she dried the dishes. “ _They're forming in straight line... doo de doo de doo… They're going through a tight wind… doo de doo de doo … The kids are losing their minds–”_

The doorbell rang, startling her from the song. There was an abrupt shifting of leather as Spike rose from his chair in the living room and joined her in the kitchen. He fixed her with a questioning, wary look –  _You feel that?_ – which she confirmed with a touch to the back of her neck.  _Yes._  There were vampires at the door. Then Buffy shrugged, turned down the radio, and headed out into the front hallway, Spike following closely behind. It wasn’t as if the visitors could come in – her name had carefully been on every single lease (at least, once they reached a time where women could hold property). She still grabbed a stake from the front side table as she went.

Spike tilted his head to her as they reached the door.  _Ready?_

She nodded.

Spike swung the door open, and they both blinked in confusion at the sight before them.

“Albert? Mathilde?” Buffy gaped at her wartime compatriots. “What...”

The two visiting vampires looked unusually relieved.

“Dieu Merci!” Mathilde said, in vehement French.  _Thank God._  Her eyes flicked to Spike. “We just saw you in New York, but…” Her voice trailed off in obvious confusion as she examined Spike. It was easy to understand.

Buffy knew exactly when Past!Spike started dyeing his hair, because her Spike  _stopped_  dyeing his. More than that, he let his curls grow out, and they were very firmly in William territory these days. Perhaps most surprising (and likely jarring, to a Mathilde who had come from New York) was Spike’s clothing. Just as he had once taken immense pleasure in wearing a million shades of not-color, Spike now took some kind of perverse amusement in wearing as many bright hues as possible. His shirt today was a blinding purple. Besides all that, he was firmly fashionable, and not in a punk kind of way (which was more than ironic, considering that Buffy  _was_ ).

Albert, equally baffled, picked up for his mate, his French accent still heavy after so many years. “You did not seem to know us… and there was a strange woman…” He gestured in a circle on one side of his head as explanation.

Buffy bit back a snort. “Strange is a kind way of putting it.”

Spike pursed his lips. “Be nice, luv. Saved your bloody reckless self once upon a time, yeah?”

Buffy flushed, properly chastised. “She did. I still owe her for that.”

Albert and Mathilde were watching them in complete bemusement.

“We did not understand,” Mathilde continued slowly, “so we contacted Julienne, yes? She told us you had come here.” Her brow furrowed. “Even though you were in New York, as well…”

Spike scowled. “Just talked to the sodding Bit. She didn’t think to mention it?”

Buffy sighed. “Well, we did have a rather distracting topic of conversation, Elly.”

She frowned at the two vampires in front of her. It was somehow equally reassuring and unnerving to see that they looked mostly the same as they had thirty years ago, as unaffected by the ravages of time as Buffy herself. Well, in all the ways that visibly aged, anyway. Mathilde had been turned sometime in her late twenties, by all accounts, and was a dark-haired bombshell with a clear Mediterranean heritage. Albert was in his mid-thirties, tall and lanky, like a tennis player. His hair was almost as black as Mathilde’s, but it looked like he’d taken to dyeing it a dark red.

“You were… worried about us?”

Mathilde smiled warmly. “Mais oui, bien sûr, Général.”  _But yes, of course_. Her smile faded. “Very glad to see you both well. But we are much confused.”

Spike and Buffy traded a long look, and her vampire shrugged, clearly saying,  _Up to you._

Buffy bit her lip in thought. Of all the unseen changes time had wrought in her, this perhaps had been her most profound realization: conscious evil (and really, could actions _be_  evil or good if they weren’t conscious?) wasn’t a state of being. It wasn’t a type, or a descriptor, or a title – no matter who claimed otherwise. It was a decision, or a million little ones. And all those decisions didn’t override the presence of everything else unless it was decided to let it. Evil choices could rest hand in hand with loving ones, or cruel ones, or compassionate ones. She wasn’t sure, anymore, what that even meant for soulfulness, or soullessness. Did a soul simply make those decisions easier to see? Make them hurt more, make them more real? After all this time, the only thing she was sure of was that a soul (or a lack thereof) wasn’t the making of a person. Or a monster.

She stepped back from the doorway. “Come in, Mathilde, Albert.”

Sitting at the table with several pots of strong English tea (the French vampires had firmly rejected the available cow’s blood, Mathilde wrinkling her nose in distaste), Buffy and Spike gave a much-abridged version of their history to date. Well, maybe “to date” didn’t really make sense, since it really started “after date.” Ugh. God. She was never going to figure out what tense to use.

Albert took a long sip from his mug when they were done, and laughed. “Is no small journey you have had, Général.”

Buffy couldn’t help but laugh in agreement. “You really have the whole 'understatement of the century' thing down, Albert.”

Albert grinned and turned a discerning eye to Spike, carefully calculating. “And you are William the Bloody. We heard you – William – were in New York, but thought our Elly was just a companion to him.” He chuckled. “And all this time, we were with the vampire célèbre himself.”

Spike shrugged, looking pleased. “And I haven’t even done in my second Slayer yet.”

Albert’s brows rose. “Yet?”

“Next year, mate. The other me’ll add another notch to his belt.”

Mathilde chuckled. “Un tueur de Tueuses… Who is now mated with one. Is quite strange, no?”

Spike chuckled lowly and placed his hand over Buffy’s on the table. “Never been good at following the rules.”

Buffy smiled affectionately at him. “You’re the worst, in fact.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, luv.”

“You would.”

He leered at her. “I would loads of things, Slayer.”

She rolled her eyes at him and turned back to the French vampires. “We appreciate you coming. Can you… please don’t kill anyone while you’re here. It would mean a lot to me.”

Mathilde nodded easily, waving a well-manicured hand. “We will… what is it called?... catch and release.”

“Thank you.”

“Is our pleasure.” She laughed. “Albert and I – we long suspected you, yes? But of course, there was no sense to it. And still, you are not les Tueuses as we know them.”

Buffy stared down at her tea, gently swirling the dregs. “I was, once. It’s been a long time.”

Spike, who had been casually leaning back in his chair, sat forward, putting his elbows on the table with sudden intensity. “She feel like a Slayer to you, mates? I’m no good for it. Been around her too bloody long. Can’t tell if she’s off, yeah?”

Albert blinked. “Off?”

“Yeah, Slayer we ran into a ways back thought she was a sodding vamp.”

Mathilde snorted. “Unobservant child.” She studied Buffy quietly, her gaze clearly inward, sensing. “You have always felt like une Tueuse to us, Général, but…” She turned to Albert for confirmation. “Not like the last one we saw, no?”

Albert nodded. “Oui. Different.”

Buffy frowned. “Different how?”

Both vampires considered this for a long moment, heads tilted in a weird mimicry of Spike’s typical thinking pose.

“Is more familiar,” Mathilde said at last. “But… louder, yes?”

Spike nodded. “Makes sense.” He gave Buffy a sideways look. “On bit friendlier terms with your demon, after all, luv.”

Buffy sighed. “Yeah. Guess that’s why I can feel Slayers now.”

Albert eyed her curiously. “Perhaps you could always, no? Who is to know, with only one girl?”

Buffy smiled wryly, and Spike chuckled. “You’d think. In my first time – in 2001 – there were actually two of us. I died, and the line moved on. Only I didn’t stay dead. So the line is – will be – split. At least until I die for good.”

Spike growled lowly. “Which had better be a long bloody time from now.”

Mathilde looked stunned. “Mon dieu! Quite a history indeed, Général.” She looked curiously at Buffy. “Do you hunt us still?”

“Do you hunt humans still?”

“Mais bien sûr. Is our nature, no?”

Buffy smiled a bit sadly. Their nature, indeed. Which they both chose to follow. “Yes. It’s my nature, too. To hunt.” She paused. It wouldn’t do any good to mention that she hadn’t killed any vampire older than a fledgling in years. That she had purposefully turned around when she felt the tingling of an older vampire. But fledglings fulfilled her need to slay, and other, nastier, demons kept her in practice. “I don’t think that need will ever go away. Can’t let it, really… Soon, I’ll have to go back to slaying for real.”

The words felt like lead in her mouth. She’d not managed to think about that, about what going back to Sunnydale  _really_  meant, for, well… since they’d started their vacation. But there was no escaping it, was there? Time moved forward with every moment, whether or not she wanted it to. And suddenly, twenty-five years felt much closer than she wanted it to.

Albert made a small sound of surprise. “When you meet your future time again, Tueuse?”

“Have to someday.”  _But I wish I didn’t._

“But there is une autre Tueuse.”

Buffy blinked. “Well, yes…”

Spike snorted. “Went rogue, that one. Got herself stuffed in the chokey.”

Buffy frowned in sudden thought, her nose wrinkling. “No more rogue than I’ve gone, really.”

Spike scoffed at her. “Not the same, pet. Don’t rightly recall you working for a snake demon.”

“No… nothing world-endy, for sure. But I’ve still done things the Council would deem just as bad. I’ve killed humans.  _Plural_ , Elly. Enough that I had to stop keeping count. The Council during the war might’ve promoted Nazi killing, but somehow I can’t see the 2001 Council understanding it. Not to mention, I’m married to a soulless vampire. And I’m sitting here, at my kitchen table, talking to two vampires who still eat people.”

Spike looked uneasy at that and she knew with sudden clarity that her words were no surprise to him; he’d simply – like her – chosen not to acknowledge it. They stared at one another in silence for a long moment, both unwilling to say more.  _We’re still on holiday. The future world isn’t allowed here. Not yet._

Spike nodded eventually, determination lining his mouth. He glanced over at their guests. “Could use a drink. Know a demon-friendly place down the street. Want to join us?”

Mathilde beamed. “We would be delighted.”

Buffy stood, tugging Spike with her. “You won’t… you won’t use this information against us, will you? Not that I could stop you from betraying us now, short of dusting you.” She swallowed. “And I’d rather not, you know.”

Albert stood as well, bringing his mate with him, and looked at her solemnly. “We did not betray you in Paris, Général. We would not do so now.” He looked at her, a little embarrassed. “Mathilde and I – we have never had a real nest. We keep quiet. Stay away from les Tueuses.” He chuckled. “Not to include you, Général. But… La Résistance… it was the closest we have come. That is why we went to New York… heard there was a Master who was described as our Elly. Thought we might… eh, rendezvous?”

An unexpected flood of baffled warmth filled Buffy’s chest. The vampires considered them  _family_. God, what kind of insano world was this anymore? She turned to Spike helplessly. “This is going to ruin me, Elly.”

He looked at her sternly and took her chin in a firm hand. “It bloody well better not, Slayer. Loyalty's not the usual, yeah?” His eyes flicked over to Mathilde and Albert. “If she was anyone else, you’d do her, yeah?”

Mathilde shrugged. “If I was hungry.”

“Or bored,” Albert added calmly.

Buffy swallowed hard. “But where’s the line?” she whispered. “I’m not… I’m not sure there even  _is_ one anymore. God, was there  _ever_  one?”

Spike just looked at her, his blue eyes riotous. She knew, instinctively, that he was debating with himself.

“Don’t lie to me, William. You’ve never done it before. Don’t start now.”

He sighed heavily, his expression weary, resigned. “Dunno anymore, luv. I’ve crossed the bloody line myself more times than can count. Not exactly the poster boy for Slayer morale.”

She sighed, looking down at her hands. They looked the same as they had a hundred years ago (and god, that was  _literal_ ) when she’d surveyed them in the English dance hall. All care of her demon. Her vampiric demon.  _The PTB are really sick bastards,_  she thought.  _Or whoever made the First Slayer_. Whoever stuffed a demon into a young girl so that she could go and kill the creatures that were now sort of her own kind. Whoever told her they were all evil, soulless, unfeeling. Whoever told her there was only ever black and white. Maybe that was the reason Slayers were made to die young. They got too old and everything got too fuzzy. Evil stopped meaning the same thing. Maybe it stopped meaning anything at all.

The real question was then, if that line was gone, what was left? Could she draw her own lines? In most ways, she realized, she already had. Mathilde and Albert were proof of that. But these lines were uncertain, wavy, complicated. The Slayer couldn’t afford to have lines like that, not when the next moment meant the world could be ending. Spike knew it, and – no matter his level of personal apathy for wrong-doing (and there was no guarantee, actually, that it wasn’t less than hers, these days) – he knew it meant her dying. And that, for him,  _was_  the line. Was that hers? She had sworn it, once upon a time.  _I promise not to die._  Maybe that was the best she could do for now.

“Buffy?”

She looked into her husband’s eyes and kissed him softly, before turning back to the French vampires. “Let’s go get a drink.”

Mathilde grinned, the edges of fangs flashing. “Oui, Général. Nous vous suivrons.”  _We will follow you._


	25. The Birth of Buffy

_January 19, 1981_

On the day of her birth, Buffy began to truly, one hundred percent with the was-there-a-demon-sitting-on-her-chest-or-was-there-just-no-oxygen panic.

“I can’t do it, Elly.”

Spike leveled a serious, compassionate gaze to her. “You have to.”

“I can’t. So much with the can’t I don’t think there’s a word that means my level of can’t. I’m not  _her_  anymore.” Buffy waved her arms in a frantic windmill as she paced the living room. “I haven’t been  _her_  in almost a century!”

Spike sighed from his position at the end of the couch, running a hand through his riotous curls. “It’s the first promise I made to you, Buffy. To take care of the Niblet. To get you back to her. Not shirking it.”

Buffy didn’t stop pacing the wooden floor of their Bangkok flat. The humidity was almost overpowering today, and thick waves of heat poured in through the open windows. It was not helping her mood.

“Well, then, let’s take her and run. You grab her from the tower, I shout a cheery hello-goodbye at the Scoobies, and off we go!” She paused for a half-beat. “Or we could just have one of our Bits sneak in. Of course, I guess they’d just think she was being kidnapped and then whoosh! There goes that.” She shook her head and paced more quickly. “No, we’ll have to do it. Maybe I’ll throw a note at them? A note would be good. Something like, 'Hey, so I’ve been around for over a hundred years now and I just don’t know what to say to any of you. Thanks for helping with Glory. Enjoy the Hellmouth!'"

Spike raised a scarred brow. “And what then? Leave Sunnyhell without a protector?”

Buffy waved his words away. “It’s been fine for hundreds of years sans Slayer. I think it can manage for a few more decades.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Or we could break Faith out of the pokey… Ooo! Actually, let’s do that. Leave Miss whatever-the-hell-five-by-five-means to kick some baddies into next Tuesday. It’ll be like community service.” She beamed at Spike as her plan came into order. “Faith. Dawnie grab. Run. Sound good?”

Spike took one long look at her – at her frantic, pacing, jittery self whose again-blonde hair was  _so_  not cooperating in this humidity – and rose from the couch. Wordlessly, he picked her up off her feet and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, before she could even think to react.

“ _Spiiike_!” she screeched, lobbing punches at his back. “Let me down!”

He didn’t. He carried her flailing self down the hallway and threw her, squirming, on the bed. She made to pull herself up, but he held her firmly down and started ripping off her clothes. Seams included.

“ _Hey!_  I liked that dress! What the hell, Elly?!”

He gave her a stern look, blue eyes equally amused and determined. “That’s enough, luv. Gonna fuck you until you calm down.”

Buffy stilled, unable to stop the sudden rush of heat that flooded through her. Damn him. She pouted. “But I don’t  _want_  to calm down!”

“Don’t rightly care, do I.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“Hush, and let me taste your lovely quim.”

She glared at him and crossed her arms over her breasts. “You are not using sex to make me drop this, you stupid vampire.”

Spike shrugged and stripped out of his light khakis and bold blue tee, down to the eternally beautiful skin she knew so well. It turned out – they had found soon enough in Spain – that he didn’t freckle. It hadn’t stopped him from trying, though, and he spent an asinine amount of time in the sun wherever they went, reading or sleeping or swimming or running.  _Reason number 486 why Spike is a cat_. Check.

All those years of sunbathing had turned his alabaster skin into a deep honey, and it looked stupidly good against his blue eyes and sun-bleached brown curls. Sometimes she hated going out in public with him, because he had a tendency to stop every female (and no fair few amount of men) wherever he went. And with the relaxing morals of the late 20th century, the once shy flirting had recently gotten super out of control. Buffy had almost punched several  _way_  too handsy women the other day. For his part, Spike seemed to gain no shortage of amusement from both the attention and her intense reaction to it, which sometimes lent itself to  _him_  getting punched instead.

“And I don’t care how stupidly sexy you are,” she continued, as he slid up the bed to grab her legs and gently, albeit firmly, tug them apart. “Or how your abs are like a stupid washboard… Or– Guh!”

Spike’s mouth found her clit in that moment and she keened lowly as bursts of heat filled her core, betraying her. His tongue swept lazily up and down her swollen lips, in that infuriating way that made her legs tremble and turn absolutely useless. “You… you…” she frowned, nose wrinkling in anger, even as she sank down into the pillows. “God damnit, William.”

He chuckled against her mound and the sudden breathy vibration made her gasp. He added his hands to the mix, parting her wet lips and plunging inside her with three fingers. “Ungh! Spike, that’s…guh. Oh god…” Her voice was a breathy mix of unwilling pleasure and frustration as her will began to scatter. Everything was out of control. Even her body. And that realization sent her into an entirely new bout of panic, with all the force of an oncoming semi truck.

The pleasuring halted immediately as Spike felt her body stiffen – heard her heart start racing wildly – and he lifted his head with a quizzical, worried brow, his lips moist with her wetness. “Buffy?” His voice held a measure of uncertainty she hadn’t heard from him in decades, and it made her flush with guilt.

“I’m sorry, William. It’s not… I just…”

Spike moved himself from her thighs to settle beside her, confused concern etched across his face. “What is it, luv?”

She took his face in both of her hands and kissed him softly, reassuringly. “I just… can I drive?”

His face cleared immediately, and a relieved smirk settled into place. He laid himself back on the bed beside her, arms spread wide against the coverlet in complete submission. “Where do you want me?”

She smiled almost shyly at him then, which was – she recognized – entirely absurd. There wasn’t likely a single, non-gross thing (although there had been plenty of the other too) that he hadn’t done to her over the years, or she to him.

He looked up at her beneath heavily lidded, darkened eyes. “Tell me what to do, Buffy,” he growled.

She scooted up his chest and lowered her mound over his face, shivering as his ragged breath landed on her most sensitive bits. “I’m going to sit on your face and I want you to lick me until I tell you to stop.”

He growled agreement. “Anything else?”

She glanced back over her shoulder to his very hard cock, standing straight up. “I want you to stroke yourself with one hand.”

“And the other?”

“Had better be in my ass.”

His breath grew more erratic beneath her, and she saw him swallow hard. “Anything else?”

“When I’m about to come, you’re going to bite me.”

His expression darkened into something entirely feral, eyes glinting with gold. “Bloody fuck, Buffy.”

She grinned at him, raising a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be licking right now?”

He didn’t bother replying. He just pulled her waist down to his mouth and plunged his tongue inside her with rapid, steady movements. Pleasure jolted through her like lightning.

“Oh god. Yes… yes, Spike…” Her voice cut to a sharp gasp as his hand briefly slipped inside her as well, thoroughly drenching his fingers, before trailing back to her ass. He slowly worked a finger inside her and curled it into a come-hither motion as he paced it to the beat of his tongue. She whimpered at that, tangling her hands in his curls. He worked in another finger and she mewled desperately, her sight narrowing to a white haze. She glanced backward with the only reason left to her, making sure he was stroking his member with his other hand. He was. And god damn, if that wasn’t one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen. Beneath her, she could feel him trembling, and soft groans were escaping him, mixed in with delighted moans as he licked and sucked at her. Her orgasm rose in her, scorching and tickling and throbbing as she rode on his face. “Oh god!  _Oh god_!”

Just as the blinding heat crashed over her, Spike drew in a sharp breath and his mouth abruptly moved to her inner thigh. She felt the rapturous, slicing pain of his fangs and a second wave of fire slammed into her like a hurricane as he drew her blood from her skin. Ecstasy blinded her as her body convulsed wildly, driven to madness by the continued pressure of his fingers and fangs. Spike withdrew his fangs with a groan after a moment and sent his attentions back to her center, lapping up her trembling spendings.

“Bloody hell, Buffy,” he breathed. “I’ll never have enough of you.” His tongue touched her still-spasming flesh, and she shuddered as another wave of wetness flooded down her. “Yeah, pet, that’s right. Come all over my face. Just like that.”

He gently grabbed her by her waist when he was done and settled her on top of his chest, letting her hold onto his arms to keep herself upright.

She gathered her strength and slid farther down him, her voice hoarse and nearly useless. “Fuck me. Right now.”

“How do you want me, luv?”

“Bounce me up and down on your cock.”

“Bloody happily.”

He sat up on the bed and lifted her slightly, settling her down on the tip of his cock with a groan. “Now?”

“Now,” she agreed breathlessly, and let him plunge her down on his swollen member. She gasped sharply as he filled her, and clutched his shoulders. “Oh, Spike.”

He pulled her near and kissed her with a passion that almost made her quail, using one hand on her waist to bob her up and down on his cock in an unhurried rhythm.

“Ungh… faster,” she murmured between kisses, and he obliged wordlessly with a sharp intake of breath.

“Bite me.”

Spike gave a strangled moan at that and shifted back into game face, his fangs sinking deep into the left side of her throat. As he drank, her entire body began to sing with pleasure, so heavy and deep she thought she might drown in it. Her orgasm crested on its wave, and she helplessly strangled his cock. Spike released her with a breathless gasp, smearing her blood across his lips. “ _Fuck_ , Buffy.”

Buffy licked the blood away and he stared at her for half a moment before breaking, his pace turning frantic, his cock plunging up into her in desperate, wild motions. “Bloody fuck, luv. So fucking beautiful. My gorgeous wife.  _Buffy_!” He came with a growl, clutching her tightly against him as he spurted into her.

Neither of them moved for several minutes afterward, both chests heaving. Finally, Buffy lifted her head from Spike’s chest woozily, all of her limbs feeling incredible close to jelly. “Thank you.”

He blinked at her blearily, then leaned down to kiss the marks on her neck, licking up a small trickle of blood from his abrupt detachment. “Sorry about that, luv. About lost my damn mind.” He kissed her on the nose then, a small, loving peck. “And no need to thank me, you silly bint. Will always do whatever you want. I’d dress in a sodding skirt and heels if that’s what did it for you.”

Buffy giggled. Oh god, wasn’t _that_ an image? She nuzzled back against his chest, running a caressing finger down his side. He trembled with her touch, his cock rising again. It made her feel unspeakably powerful and proud, that she could turn him on with something as simple as a touch. That he still wanted her that much after so many years. “Do you really want to go back?”

Spike sighed and ran a hair through her wavy hair, made damp and heavy with sweat and heat. “No, luv, I don’t, matter of fact.”

She frowned and looked up at him, meeting self-mocking blue eyes. “No?”

He gave her a look and smiled bitterly. “It's the place of no small number of humiliations for me, yeah? Not to mention, was sodding  _neutered_  when I left, fodder for Soldier Boy or Harris, or whoever bloody else decided to come along. Not enough of a man, not able to be a monster. Reputation was fucking gone, and not a demon worth his salt that wanted much to do with a traitor.” His eyes softened and he kissed her, with slow fierceness. “This has been the best century of my life, Buffy. Don’t fancy going back.”

“But you’re still trying to convince me to go? What the hell happened to the Spike who thinks rules are made for breaking?”

He chuckled, but it was humorless. “Told you, I’ll never break a promise to you. Even if you want me to.” He shrugged. “Besides, too much of my poncy self anymore. I’m an Uncle a hundred bleedin’ times over.”

“I don’t understand.”

Spike drew a hand down the curve of her breast, keeping a close eye on her skin as it shivered against his touch. “It's just what’s right, luv. Duty and honor and all that rot.”

“No more ‘death and glory and sod all else'?”

He pointedly ignored her awful British accent, his hand continuing to trek down her body and gently cupping the curve of her ass before moving forward to the beginning of her inner thigh. Buffy gasped slightly and spread her legs, straddling Spike's waist even further. He smirked at her, hand stilling just before he touched her suddenly quivering core. How did he  _do_  that? She was sweaty and hot and exhausted, and still she wanted him again.

“Got more interesting pursuits these days, yeah?”

She swallowed hard, wiggling her hips. If she could just move _there_ , his hand would touch her. Trying to keep her voice light, she asked, “Oh? What kind of pursuits?”

He gave her a knowing leer at her antics and slid his hand back an inch farther, making her mewl in protest. He grinned more widely.

“Spiiike.”

He laughed at her. “You insatiable minx.” He kissed her soundly, tenderness glowing bright in his eyes. “We’ll figure it out, Buffy. I promise. But we have to go back.”

“Even though neither of us want to.”

“That’s right, pet.”

She sighed, pouting. “That’s stupid.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed and he looked at her with fierce determination. “You’re the strongest woman I know, Buffy, and that hasn’t changed in a century.  _You’re_  the Slayer. Not the bleeding Scoobies. Not the sodding Council.  _You_ make the rules. So make them bloody well fall in line, General.” Something uncertain shadowed his gaze then. “Is it… is us–”

“No!” Buffy interrupted firmly. “I don’t give a damn what they think about us, William. You’re mine. And I’m yours. And that’s all there is to it. Period. And I’m… I’m not afraid of fighting the others. Not anymore. I mean, geez, what’s a few Scoobies and a Watcher compared to the shit we’ve lived through?”

Spike swallowed hard, and she could see the relief in his eyes. It surprised her – saddened her. Even after a century, he was worried she’d up and leave him.  _Not happening, you stupid vampire._

“Then what is it, luv? What are you afraid of?” he asked gently.

She crumpled against him. “You know exactly what, Elly. I’m not cut out to be the Slayer anymore.”

He snorted. “I think you’re the most Slayer there’s been, point of fact.”

She looked up at him, nose wrinkled in confusion. “Huh?”

“Closest to your demon, yeah?”

“And we both know what that’s done,” Buffy said softly. “I know what I believe. Most of the time, anyway, until something else throws me for a stupid loop. It’s just… the Slayer–”

“Is you,” Spike finished firmly. “It’s an office, Buffy. A title. Your title. It’s whatever the hell you make it. It won’t be what it was before, but it’s still yours.”

She frowned up at him curiously. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you.”

He looked a little sheepish at that. “A bit, yeah.”

“Since Mathilde and Albert visited?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” she said then.

“What the bloody hell for?”

Buffy laughed lowly. “For being a whiny brat, actually. I have to go back to work to see people who once cared about me immensely. You have to go back to hatred and bias and people who are going to absolutely freak when they learn you’re chipless.”

Spike shrugged, looking at her intently. “Sure, don’t fancy it, as I said, but… you’re the only one who matters. I jumped in the portal for  _you_. I let a hell god torture me for  _you_.” He chuckled. “Point of fact, seem to have made out on the whole venture. Got a woman who loves me, no chip, and a long holiday.”

Buffy looked at him slyly. “So you have me to thank for being all deathwish-Buffy?”

He glared at her. “Not going that bloody far.”

She giggled. “I love you, Elly.”

Spike smiled and held her tightly against him, his breath tickling her ear. “Happy birthday, Buffy.”


	26. For Gift Returns, See the Cold Opening Aisle

“Jesus, Elly, that looked like it hurt.”

Spike grunted. “Well, it bloody well did.”

They watched as Spike lay stunned on a pile of bricks after his thirty plus foot fall. Well… 2001!Spike, anyway. Buffy now understood how insanely weird it must’ve been for Spike to see William as she watched herself race up to the tower to Dawn. 2001!Buffy looked… well, she looked haggard. It wasn’t WW2 haggard, but it wasn’t pretty. She looked ready to die.  _And I was. Before Spike. Before William._  Peeking out into the battle from behind a nearby building (just far enough away that their other selves wouldn’t feel the telltale tingles of their presence), Buffy pressed Spike’s hand more tightly.

She watched 2001!Spike stumble to his feet, clutching his side, eyes desperately looking to the tower. She realized the moment he saw what she hadn’t for another long minute – the very edges of the portal that would take them to 1880. It had started lower than she suspected, below the field of vision she’d had on the tower with Dawn. But Spike had seen it. And he’d run. Run to her. She watched the vampire bolt up the tower like hell was on his heels. She expected to feel… well, god, she didn’t really know what she expected to feel. Anxiety? Heaviness? Nostalgia? But instead, there was the strangest kind of relief. Even now, after twenty years of quiet spying (and a century of trying not to), knowing that their histories were staying on track, there was still some kind of uncertainty to tonight. It was the beginning, after all. If it didn’t go right, then everything after would fall apart. But once they jumped, that was it. The last century was all but written in stone. It couldn’t be taken back or destroyed or altered.

“Is it weird that I feel kind of happy watching this?”

The Spike at her side smiled tenderly at her, keeping his younger self in the corner of his vision. “No, luv. It's not weird.”

Together, silent, they watched 2001!Buffy reason with Dawn.

“Do you know what I told her, Elly?”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I loved her, that the hardest thing to do in this world was to live in it.” Buffy laughed lowly. “Little did I know, I’d be living my own words.” She gave Spike’s hand another squeeze. “But it hasn’t been so hard. I’ve had you.”

“We’ve had each other, Buffy.”

2001!Spike leapt past a crying Dawn and tackled 2001!Buffy. And then they both were leaping, lightning arcing in all directions as the monstrous horrors from the portal roared around them. As they disappeared into the miasma, the portal collapsed upon itself with a violent sucking sound, and was gone. The night became deathly quiet, only the shifting of Scoobies and Glory’s maddened construction crew left to break the silence.

“I guess that’s our cue, luv. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Hand in hand, they stepped out from behind the building, and came in full view of the Scoobies, who were staring up at where the portal had been a minute ago. Eyes drew to them in shocked silence and, for a long moment, the two groups simply stared at one another. Buffy knew exactly what they saw. Both she and Spike had debated for almost a year about their appearances. Should they look as they had that night a century ago? Should they look so different that there was no mistaking they were not  _that_ Buffy and Spike? In the end, they went for a mix between the two – a compromise of all the places and times they’d been, and the time that they had now come back to call home. Spike had re-bleached his hair and cut it slightly, and he once again had donned Nikki’s duster; however, the shirt beneath it was a bright green, and his pants were blue jeans. Buffy wore a short brown leather jacket and jeans on top of her white sweater, her blonde hair fairly matching that from 2001, only she’d pulled it up into a messy bun.

The Scoobies were so different from what she remembered. Young, was her first thought. And tired. A shocked and nearly crying Willow stood to one side, steadying herself against a pajama-ed Tara. Xander was on the other side, carrying a semi-conscious Anya. Giles was in the center, looking grim and pole-axed.

Willow recovered her senses first and sent forth a trembling, “B-buffy?”

Buffy waved awkwardly with her free hand. “Hey, Wil. Long time no see.”

“Good to see you, Red,” Spike added easily. “Needed you about a century ago.”

Willow stared at him, dazed. She glanced at her girlfriend, who looked equally stupefied. “Huh?”

Xander was squinting at them. “Whoa, Bleach Boy. You’re looking awfully… tan. Wait.” Xander looked around at the others. “Does anyone else find it weird that the vampire is looking tan?”

Giles let forth a stuttering noise, his gaze swinging from the tower and back to them. “What– I don’t…” His gaze sharpened on them. “Are you  _holding Spike’s hand_?”

Buffy raised a brow, exasperation filling her. “Really, Giles? Of all the questions you could have,  _that’s_  the one you start with? Not, ‘Gee, Buffy, how’d you suddenly get down here’, or ‘Gee, Buffy, how’d you change your clothes’, or ‘Gee, Buffy, don’t you think this is weird’?”

Spike smirked at her. “Told you. Believe that’s two orders of chicken wings you owe me.”

Buffy rolled her eyes at him. “Next time I’m about to make a bet with you, Elly, remind me to not.”

“Where’s the fun in that, pet? Besides, I get wings out of the deal.”

“Does it really count if it comes out of your money?”

“It's the principle of the thing.”

“God, you’re impossible.”

He grinned at her, the look fading suddenly as he glanced toward the tower. He dropped Buffy’s hand and strode to where Dawn had appeared, stumbling down the last few steps of the hell contraption, looking dazed and broken, in some terrible joke of a princess dress. Spike scooped her up without a word, and she collapsed into his shoulder, sobbing.

“I got you, Lil Bit. It's alright.”

“Bu– but you…  _I just saw you jump!_ ”

“Yeah. We jumped. But we’re both here now.” He nudged her with the side of his arm as he walked back to join Buffy. “Look. Big sis is here.”

That seemed to get Dawn’s attention. She peeked out from Spike’s arms, trembling, gasping as she saw Buffy. “ _B-buffy?!_ ”

Buffy leaned over and kissed her little sister on the forehead. Her skin was clammy and streaked with sweat. “Hi, Dawnie. I’m here.”

“I don’t…” Her sister’s voice trailed off as she looked at Buffy, her nose wrinkling in an undeniably Summers fashion. “You look… you don’t look like you did a minute ago… What’s going on?”

Buffy beamed at her. “At least  _you_  ask the right questions!” She turned back to Giles. “ _See?_  That would have made a lot more sense than asking me why I’m holding Spike’s hand. And for the record, it’s because I wanted to. Because I enjoy it. Because I love him. Because we’re married. Take your pick.”

And before the Scoobies could do anymore than stare wide-eyed at her for  _that_ set of revelations, Faith peeked her head around the corner. “Yo, B, natives are getting restless back here.”

Xander gaped at the other Slayer. “It’s Faith! Holy Schnikes, Faith’s escaped from prison!”

Faith just gave him her classic look of condescending disregard – complete with eye roll – and turned back to Buffy. “So?”

Buffy shrugged. “Send ‘em out. Might as well get all the shocks over at once.”

Faith glanced behind her. “You heard the General.”

Buffy smiled at that.

Giles seemed to recover himself. “I say. Send out who, exactly?”

“Us,” replied the young man that came around the corner, the first of four. He was dark haired like his great-great grandfather, but had his grandmother’s eyes. He surveyed the Scoobies with a very familiar head tilt. “So this is the famous Sunnydale crew?” He nodded to them politely. “Hullo. Thomas Delancey. Pleased to meet you.”

Anya stirred in Xander’s arms. “Oh, this one is British, too. Why are there so many British men in California?” She frowned in thought. “Is it because your weather there is terrible?”

Thomas grinned at her. “Just on holiday, miss.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and waved forward the older woman behind him. “And this is–”

“Ellen?!” Giles was staring at the woman incredulously.

Ellen, a slim, pretty woman somewhere in her fifties, smiled at him mischievously. “Hello, Rupert.”

Xander blinked. “Whoa. We’ve gone full British invasion, guys.” He turned to Giles. “You know her?”

“Well, yes, quite…” Giles continued to stare. “We’re ah, uhm, cousins. By marriage.” He whipped off his spectacles and started cleaning them furiously. Buffy was rather shocked it had taken him this long. “Good lord, what are you doing here? And how?”

Ellen tinkled a light peal of laughter. “Well, I flew, of course, Rupert. How else? As to the why, I’m visiting family.”

Giles frowned at her. “But I… well, forgive me, Ellen, but I had no idea you were coming. And your timing and placement are… odd.”

She gave him an indulgent look. “I didn’t say you were the family.”

The two remaining figures moved forward. “We are here for the Général.”

Buffy smiled at them. “This is Albert and Mathilde. They’re vampires, just so we’re clear.” She gave the Scoobies a long, steely look. “And friends. There will be no staking of them.”

Willow was staring, ashen-faced, at all the new arrivals. “Buffy? What’s going on?”

Anya waved wildly from Xander’s arms. “Oo! I know!”

Spike and Buffy stared at her, Spike watching her narrowly. “You know, pet?”

The ex-vengeance demon squirmed in Xander’s arms until he set her down, letting her lean against him. Anya beamed proudly. “Hallie said she met you in London. Told me to not get killed – which, you know, I didn’t – so I think I did well.”

Spike barked sudden laughter. “Well, bloody hell.”

Xander was staring at her. “Who’s Hallie, Ahn?”

“Oh! She’s a vengeance demon. We cursed a lot of people together. She’s the one that taught me the best way to turn a man’s penis–”

“Oh-kay!” Xander turned bright red. “Remember our conversation about inappropriate details?”

Anya sighed and turned to the new arrivals with a shrug. “I apologize if you find my past employment uncomfortable. Xander says no one wants to hear about the details of creating intense pain to men’s sexual organs.”

Thomas laughed out loud. “Oh, I  _like_  her, Uncle!”

Xander eyed the young Brit warily and tugged Anya closer.

Anya, in turn, gave Thomas a speculative look. “You’re not all human, are you?”

Thomas grinned at her. “Bit Ano-movic down the way, and my mum is half Brachen.”

Anya nodded, beaming. “Well, you look very human.”

“Ta, luv.”

From the edge, Willow raised a timid hand. “Can someone please make with a little more of the splainy-ness?”

Buffy sighed, glancing toward the horizon. The barest tinges of pink were beginning to peek through. “Explanations are going to take awhile, Wil. Let’s go back to Revello – some of my guests are rather flammable.”

Mathilde nodded at her gratefully. “Merci.”

Buffy glanced over at her sister, who was laying limp, exhausted, in Spike’s arms. “And get everyone patched up.” Her eyes widened as sudden memory hit. “Glory! Where’s Glory?”

Giles cleared his throat quietly. “Glory,” he said slowly, “is dead.”

“Dead? But I didn’t…” Her eyes drew to Giles’s face in confusion and he looked at her steadily, defiantly.  _Oh._

“I did what needed to be done, Buffy. I shan't apologize for it.”

“I’m not asking you to.” At his surprised look, she shrugged. “If you didn’t do it, I would have.” She smiled at him with real warmth. “Thank you, Giles.”

“Yeah, way to go, Watcher man,” Faith added, with a nod of approval.

Giles stared at Buffy intently. “I believe you are our Buffy less and less by the moment.”

Both Buffy and Spike chuckled at that. “Well, that’s because I’m not, Giles. I mean, I am Buffy, or what’s become of her over the years. But I’m not  _yours_.” She looked over tenderly at Spike. “If anything, I’m William’s.”

“No more than I’m yours, luv.”

Xander was gaping. “’William’s’? Who the heck calls him William?” He whirled on Willow accusingly. “Did you do another spell?”

Willow held up her hands in surrender. “No! I swear!” Her face crinkled into a frown. “Why would I have done that now anyway?”

Xander turned to Giles, who sputtered at him. “Well, don’t bloody well look at  _me_!”

Spike rolled his eyes and shifted Dawn in his arms. “Let’s get a move on, shall we, kiddies? You can debate all the sodding spells you didn’t do on the way.”

And without waiting for a reply, he and Buffy set off through the construction site, with the Delanceys, Faith, and vampires falling in line behind them. The Scoobies followed a minute later, several paces behind.

“A bit of a muddled set,” Ellen remarked calmly.

“Excitable,” Albert added.

“Based on what you told us about life in Sunnydale, Auntie,” Thomas said, “I thought they might handle this a tad better.”

Buffy waggled her brows at him. “Bit, this  _is_  better. No one tried to stake my husband or decided I was a demon in disguise. Yet, anyway. Night’s still young.”

“Good lord.”

Faith laughed. “They’re a bunch of pansy asses, T.” She gave the Bit a sultry smile. “ _You_ ,on the other hand…”

“Hands off my nephew, Faith,” Buffy said warningly.

Faith shrugged. “Just having fun.”

Mathilde was inspecting the remains of Glory’s crew as they passed, eyes narrowed. “They smell… off.”

“Brain sucked,” Buffy said, pausing. “Oh god. All these people. Can someone call the hospital?”

“I’ve got it, Auntie.” Thomas pulled out a slim cellphone and dialed.

“Thanks, Bit.” Spike turned to Buffy, glancing behind them at the cautiously trailing Scoobies. “Well, luv. We’ve done it. We’re here.”

“Almost didn’t think it would happen, you know?”

“I know, pet.”

 

***

 

They had started celebrating occasions after Buffy’s birthday. 1996 brought, “Happy Calling day, Buffy” and “Welcome to Sunnyhell, luv.” 1997 was “Happy crash the school day, Spike.” 1999 was “Happy graduation day, pet.”

It helped to remind them that all of this had once been real. That it was real now, and happening to their other selves. And they planned. God, they must’ve gone through half a hundred different plans. When to arrive (still sometimes,  _if_  to arrive), how to arrive, what to say. It felt like war planning.

Buffy had a panic attack every year on her birthday, and Spike tried a range of tactics to snap her out of it, from kinky sex to starting an all-out fight, to just holding her in a bone-crushing embrace until she didn’t feel like she was going to fly apart anymore. “I’ll be with you, Buffy,” he told her in 1992. “And I won’t let the sodding Scoobies do anything to you.”

“I know. But what’s  _Sunnydale_  going to do to me?”

He just held her more tightly after that.

After several more years of ideas, it became apparent that they could actually do it. They could actually return to Sunnydale and keep their sanity. They just couldn’t do it alone.

In the end, breaking Faith out of jail was the only part of Buffy’s original, frantic plan that they kept. Six months before that fateful night on Glory's hell tower, Buffy found herself in Los Angeles, staring through plate glass at her sister Slayer.

Faith had just stared back at her, arms crossed. "Long time, B. Come to see the digs?"

"No," Buffy had replied carefully. "I came to bring you home."

Faith scoffed at her. "Home? Ain't got a home, B. This is about as close as it comes. Three square meals, a clean bed, and bars on the windows."

"It's not my home, either – not anymore. But... it could be ours. I need you."

Faith had narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, just slightly. "Something that bad, huh?"

Buffy smiled wryly. "Kind of. Just not what you'd think." She leaned forward too. "See, the thing is, Faith, you're actually the good Slayer now."

Faith barked a laugh. "Right. That's why I'm the one in here."

Buffy shrugged. "I've killed more people than I can count. And plenty of them innocent men, even if they did work for a Big Bad. And I while I've never tried to destroy the world, I've sure made friends with people who probably could. We all make our lines in the sand. The thing is, I've had a lot longer to do it, and I wasn't alone when I had to figure it out." Buffy looked at her full-on, serious. "And you shouldn't be alone, either. You're a good Slayer. And a good person."

Faith had sat up straight, wary. "What the hell is this?"

"How much time do you have?"

Buffy had to come back eight times to get through it all, since the guards wouldn't allow visits longer than twenty minutes. When she finished, Faith just sat there. Finally, she let out a low whistle. "Hot damn, B. That's quite some story." She eyed her speculatively. "Still not sure how I fit in to this, though."

Buffy grinned at her. "I'm actually the outsider now, only... the Scoobies don't know it yet. And they're likely not going to understand very well – not that I could really blame them. It's hard to understand something you haven't lived. But they’re going to need you. You'll still make some kind of sense to them, even if they don't like you. Besides that,  _I'm_  going to need you. Because, honestly, you're more tied to here and now than I am. And I'm going to make some changes that you'll be able to translate for the others. Or call me out on, if I need it."

Faith eyed her narrowly. "You want me to be your wingman."

"I want you to be my partner."

She seemed to think that over for a long minute. "You're setting me up to play point someday, aren't you?"

"If you want it." Buffy shrugged. "I'm immortal. As long as I don't get killed, I'm not going to stick around the Hellmouth forever."

Something uncertain crossed the other Slayer's face. "I burned a lot of bridges, B. They're not going to want me back."

"Believe me, Faith. Next to me, you'll look like the good option."

It hadn't taken long after that to break Faith out; or rather, to spend a bunch of money at a demonic law firm (somewhere very firmly not Wolfram and Hart, though she wasn't sure it was less evil) to get all traces of Faith's crimes wiped away.

Buffy and Spike met her outside the front doors the day of her release, and the other Slayer threw her small bag of belongings into their rented car. She looked at Spike a little hesitantly. "No hard feelings about the whole Bronze situation?"

Spike grinned at her. "Got the real thing these days, Cowgirl. You weren't far off, anyhow."

"So we're good?"

"We're good, pet."

Faith climbed into the car. "Where to, B?"

"The airport. We have to pick up the others."

"Sweet." She frowned. "Not sure hanging out in LA's the best plan though. Your ex has got eyes all over this city."

"Don't worry, we've been careful. And we're not staying."

 

***

 

The house on Revello Drive looked more or less as Buffy remembered. A deep, unexpected pang went through her as she stared at it.  _Mommy._ After over a century, the loss of her mother had faded into the background, buried underneath a hundred other funerals and the unrelenting watercolor effect of time. But there was something about coming back here, to where everything was in garish technicolor, that brought it rushing back. And even after it all, that day had been one of the hardest days of the last twenty years – the one where she knew her mother had gone from person to body. As she had once held Spike in a bumpy carriage, he held her in a hotel room in northern California, curled up into a ball against his shirted chest, soaking it.

Now, standing in front of the house that was once hers – and was now hers again – ‘more or less as she remembered’ still left out all the small details that once been as familiar to her as her own hand. The way the front steps were rounded on the edges from decades of treading feet. The slight dip in the roof that was probably the beginnings of a major issue carefully ignored but always seen. The way the air around the house smelled like sun and old wood and dirt. The way it felt like home.

Buffy paused at the front door, remembering all at once that she no longer had a key. Like a guest, she stole the spare from under the potted plant on the corner of the porch and let herself in. She paused to look behind her at her small troupe, noting that the Scoobies had paused on the sidewalk, whispering furiously. “Come in, all of you.” She went inside without another word.

Spike followed right behind, gently lowering a nearly unconscious Dawn onto the couch. “Niblet’s looking a mite off-color. Best get her patched quick.”

Dawn tried to struggle to a sit at that. “Geez, I’m fine,” she muttered, but it came out a whisper, and a low cry of pain sent her tumbling back to the couch.

Spike frowned at the youngest Summers before turning back to Buffy, who had moved to hover anxiously over her sister. “First aid still under the sink?”

Buffy blinked, drawing a blank. “Is that where it was before?”

“Yeah, pet.”

“Well then, still there.” She eyed him with no small level of annoyance. “How is your memory so good, Elly?”

Spike paused from where he had stridden into the hallway. “Was the place I most wanted to be, luv,” he said softly. “Memorized every inch.” And then he was gone.

Thomas shook his head from where he was standing by the fireplace, peering at the photos on the shelf. “Geez, Uncle, how the hell is any man to live up to you?”

“Don’t even try, Bit,” came the yelled reply.

Buffy rolled her eyes and sent one hand down to stroke her sister’s brow before drawing the shades to the living room, noting the Scooby eyes that were carefully watching. “Elly! Get the dining room curtains?”

“Right o’, pet,” came the reply, closer. She heard the slight whoosh of moving fabric, and then Spike came back into view, passing the hallway just as the Scoobies stumbled in.

“Took your bloody time,” Spike told them, as he handed the kit to Buffy. “Had a meeting on the front lawn, eh?”

Willlow colored as she took in all the faces in the living room, staring at them. “We, uhm, well… Buffy and you…” She stopped, and her face hardened with resolve. “We don’t know who you are.”

Anya pushed past her, collapsing on the end of the couch opposite Dawn with a sigh. “I told them that you’re you,” she said plaintively. “But they won’t listen to me.”

Willow glared at her. “Tara says their auras are wrong!”

Giles shut the front door and stood watching the married pair mistrustfully. “Indeed. And some kind of cloaking on them both?”

Buffy snorted from where she was unwinding a bandage and looked Tara in the eyes. The blonde witch was leaning against the living room entry frame, looking exhausted and scared.  _She just got her mind back_ , Buffy recalled, feeling sympathy seep through her. “Let me guess. You see a blueish-silvery netting over me?”

Tara blinked at her. “Y-yes.”

Buffy nodded, looking at Giles. “It  _is_  a cloaking spell. Kind of became necessary when the Council found me. One itchy spell later and poof! No more finding the Buffy.”

Giles frowned deeply at her. “The Council? Why were they looking for you? Anya said the portal took you to London…” He shook his head irritably. “Which is absurd.”

“Oh, it is,” Buffy said cheerfully, wrapping her sister’s waist, to weak protests. “But it happened. And that’s not the best part. It wasn’t just London. It was London in 1880.”

They all stared at her, and Mathilde laughed from the corner of the living room. “Like rabbits found in their holes.”

Anya shot up from the couch. “Rabbits? Oh, god! Where?!”

Xander put a reassuring hand on his girlfriend’s arm. “Just an expression, Ahn.”

Anya glared at the vampire. “A really, really mean one.”

Mathilde shrugged. “You would prefer if I said kulslag in their holes?”

Anya smiled at that. “Much better.”

Xander frowned. “What the heck’s a kulslag?”

Thomas turned from the fireplace, grinning. “Little scaly, burrowing demons. Make great snacks, if they don’t bite your arm off.”

“Sna…cks?” Xander shuddered. “Oh man, forget I asked.”

Faith laughed. “Nah, keep going, T. His face is priceless.”

Xander glared at her. “You’re not welcome here.” He glanced at Buffy. “If we ever needed more proof that something is seriously warped, it’s the fact that Buffy even wants to be in the same room as you.”

Faith’s face darkened dangerously, but she just sniffed at him, her lips curling in anger. “Shows what you know.”

“Yes,” Buffy agreed mildly. “It does.” She looked down at her sister, who was passed out fully now, and drew the blanket on the back of the couch over her. “How’s she sound, Elly?”

“Heart’s strong, luv, and wounds smell shallow. Likely just plain exhausted.”

Giles cleared his throat from the hallway. He looked incredibly overwhelmed, his face shadowed in mistrust and confusion. “That isn’t the only spell Tara saw.”

Spike shrugged. “’Spect not. Got one on me, too.” He drew up the sleeve of his duster to reveal the scarred, half-closed eye on his forearm. “Slayer wasn’t the only one who had undesirables poking about. Bloody family.” He looked at the mark with something like surprise. “Guess I can get it reversed now, eh?”

Buffy laughed. “What, you want Angel to be able to find you, Elly?”

He grinned at her. “On second thought.”

Xander was staring at them again. He glanced to the other Scoobies. “Is anyone else here super weirded out by them right now?”

Willow and Giles raised their hands.

Spike gave them a patronizing look and held up his left hand, flashing the gold ring there. “Been married for a century, Harris.”

Xander’s eyes nearly bugged out. “Okay, that is the second time I’ve heard the word  _married_. Am I hallucinating right now? God, I hope I’m hallucinating.”

Giles was staring at them with narrowed eyes. “You’re actually serious. You think you were in the nineteenth century.”

Buffy laughed. “There’s no ‘think’, Giles. We were there.”

“But… but…”

“I’d be long dead by now?”

He paled slightly. “Well, yes.”

Spike grinned. “Funny how immortality’ll bugger that.”

Giles paled further and backed to the front door, to their great bemusement. It was only when she saw him reach for the wooden stake stashed there that it made sense.

“Oh for Pete’s sake, Giles, I’m not a vampire.”

Giles held up the stake and came to stand before the other Scoobies. “I think,” he said dangerously, “that is exactly what you are.” He glanced at the French vampires. “Consorting with evil. I should’ve guessed.”

Ellen laughed then, loudly and heartily. She had been quietly sitting in a chair to the side, content to survey the scene, until this moment. “Really, Rupert. She walked into the house on her own. And how does that explain me?”

Giles frowned but didn’t lower the stake. “Yes, what  _are_  you doing here, Ellen?”

“I told you, dear, visiting family.” She nodded at Spike and Buffy. “My aunt and uncle, as a matter of fact.”

“Your…” Giles lowered the stake, seemingly at a loss for how to clean his glasses and be on the offensive at the same time.

“Mine, too,” Thomas added cheerfully. “Auntie Liz and Uncle Elly here are practically family monuments.”

“Hey!” Buffy glared at him.

He grinned at her cheekily. “And you still look ravishing, Auntie.”

Anya murmured approval from the couch. “Oh, he’s good.”

Xander glared at the two French vampires, who seemed highly amused by the scene. “And what about  _them_?”

Albert shifted into game face and surveyed Xander with unblinking golden eyes. Xander took a step back to the hall, snatching the stake from Giles’s hand.

“We,” Albert said through fangs, “follow the Général.”

Mathilde laughed, grinning at Buffy. “And is always fun.”

Giles made a strangled sort of sound. “You… are friends with these creatures?”

Buffy gave him a cool look. “Yes, I am. And I swear to god, Giles, if you even so much as think about telling the Council to send a wetworks team, so help me, I will dismantle your entire stupid Council myself.” She frowned then, looking at Spike. “Could we do that?”

Her husband tilted his head in consideration. “Know enough blokes. Prolly, yeah.”

Mathilde’s grin widened. “You would invite us, yes?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Buffy assured her. She looked over at her appalled Watcher, expression softening. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not making this easy on you. It’s just… “ She sighed. “Giles, I’ve been alive for a hundred and forty years. I’m really past the point of compromising. And  _that_ ,” she looked pointedly at Xander, “is why Faith is here. She’s the stop-gap, to make sure I don’t forget that you’re human and young, and don’t understand. And besides that, she’s here because I want her to be.”

Faith let out a low chuckle, looking incredibly pleased. “Miss Stick Up Her Ass turned Miss Hard Ass. How fucking wicked is that.”

Willow was looking pale as death. “Buffy… You can’t… What happened to you?”

“I’m old, Wils.” Buffy laughed. “That’s what happened.” She smiled at her once-friend sympathetically. “I don’t really want to be here. I don’t want to be turning your lives upside down. But… I’m the Slayer. So, here I am. And you’re stuck with me for now.”

“And they’d have bloody well never stopped trying to find us otherwise,” Spike added, grumbling.

Giles looked at the crowd in Buffy’s living room, his face flickering with a dozen different emotions. Then he sighed and collapsed into the free chair next to the living room entrance. Very slowly, he cleaned his glasses and leaned forward, giving Buffy his full attention. “I think, Buffy, that you should start from the beginning.”

Relief filled her. “You’re ready?”

Her Watcher’s mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “Not in the least. But I see no other recourse, at this point.”

Buffy looked around at the assembled visitors and Scoobies, turning to her husband at last. She reached for his hand, and Spike gave it to her with a blinding smile.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that you should all get very comfortable.”


	27. The Last Century, Abridged

"Xander, if you don't drop that stake right now, I will knock your ass into next Tuesday."

Xander blanched, but continued to hold the weapon tightly in front of him. "His chipped got fried! He's dangerous!"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "So am I. And he's one of  _three_  unleashed vampires in this room. None of whom," she continued slowly, "have tried to eat you."

Mathilde grinned at that, fangs sliding down. "That can be rectified, Général."

“You put those away,” Anya admonished sternly. “Otherwise, he’s going to keep hating all demons, and I’m getting very tired of pretending I don’t care.”

Xander really did drop the stake then.

 

***

 

“Don’t know what you were thinking, Watcher. Couldn’t at least get her to speak properly during all those years in the library?”

"Hey, my British is much better than it used to be!"

"The fact that you still call it 'British' speaks volumes, luv."

 

***

 

“I’m very sure. She said that Spike and William had echoed against each other through dimensions and time.”

Giles looked fascinated. "And you're certain... there's not a small bit of soul in Spike, after all?"

Spike gave him a dark look. "Don't need a sodding soul, Watcher."

Xander nodded in agreement. "Personally, I'll take the soulless evil demon."

The others stared at him and he reddened. "What? Are we all forgetting what happens when a formerly-evil vampire loses his soul?" He shrugged. "At least Bleach Boy here is, uhm, consistent."

Even Spike looked surprised. "Thanks, Harris."

 

****

 

“You knew, didn’t you?”

Giles sighed heavily. “The origin of the Slayer line? Yes, Buffy, I knew.”

“I wish you’d have told me.”

He looked at her curiously. “Do you really?”

Buffy smiled a bit sadly. “Knowing what I do now? Being what I am now? Yes.”

“Ah. But would have sixteen-year-old you wanted to know?”

“Probably not. But I still deserved to.”

 

***

 

Willow drew close at the description of the witch’s muffling spell. Her gaze was glued on Spike’s arm. “Can I see it?”

Spike eyed her warily. “That's dark magic, Red.”

Willow shrugged. “Well, sure. Not exactly going to hide family relations between vampires with anything else. It’s just… I’ve never heard of this spell before.” She looked up at Spike thoughtfully. “You don’t happen to remember what she chanted, do you?”

“Pet, I don’t even know what language it was in.”

 

***

 

Tara was visibly horrified. “A b-butcher?”

Even Xander looked green at the gills. “Man, Spike, I’ve wanted to kill you… or wanted Buffy to… more times than I can count. But that… I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

Spike looked at him with curious bemusement, and maybe the smallest touch of snark. “I'm not your worst enemy, then?”

Xander laughed a real laugh. “You haven’t been that in years, Chipless. The annoying asshole who was obsessed with Buffy, sure. But not that.” He paused thoughtfully. “Not sure you ever really got that title from Dead Boy, anyway.”

“S’pose I should feel offended.”

Thomas burst out laughing, and Spike glared at him. “You watch it, Bit.”

Thomas ignored him and glanced at Ellen. “Does he really think anyone believes this absurd routine?”

Ellen smiled slyly. "Uncle’s never been one to let a ridiculous notion go, my dear."

“You can say that again.”

“Oi! I’ll rip out your sodding throat, Bit, and then we’ll see who’s playing at a bloody routine!”

Thomas just rolled his eyes and looked pointedly at the others. “He’s been threatening to do that to me since I was three.”

“ _Well, I’ll bloody well do it this time!”_

“Says the vampire who’s loved the same woman for over a century and – the way I hear it – loved another woman for an entire century before that. Who’s also watched over my family for that entire century. Who’s also kept a promise to get my Auntie back home for… shall I say it? That entire century. Face it, Uncle, you’re a sodding nancy boy.”

Buffy burst out laughing, and then she kissed Spike soundly on the lips before he could spew what was clearly going to be a long string of cursing threats. “And I love him very much. My William.”

Spike very visibly swallowed his indignant words with a self-suffering sigh. “Ganged up on me,” he groused, pulling Buffy into his arms.

 

***

 

“That Halfrek was a stuck-up cunt,” Faith said with a low whistle. “I mean, damn, that was a bitch move.”

Anya pursed her lips. “I think it was very stylish… if a little rude.”

“Watcher, if you write any faster, your arm is going to fall off.”

Giles paused for only a moment, not even bothering to look annoyed. “Now, Buffy, tell me again what it felt like.”

“Giles, I’ve told you ten times.”

“What’s once more then?”

“Ugh.”

Spike snorted laughter, and Giles turned a Watcherly eye on him. “Do not think the sun allergy removal escaped my notice, Spike. You’re next.”

“Bugger.”

 

***

 

“So  _that’s_  why you keep calling him ‘Elly’!” Willow smiled victoriously.

Spike scowled. “And she’s the only one who can. Anyone else gets their brainstem ripped out.”

 

***

 

“Oh, your wedding sounds just lovely,” Tara said softly.

Willow nodded wordlessly, tears in her eyes.

Xander looked at the two women, clearly at a loss. “What, so suddenly we’re okay with Buffy being married to  _Spike_?”

Giles sighed. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Xander, but I quite believe we’re a hundred years too late to complain.”

“Bloody right you’re too late.”

Buffy grinned, showing off the emerald ring she was just now finally getting to wear.  _Only took a stupid century._  “And did you _see_  my engagement ring?”

Anya sat up abruptly. “I want to tell them.”

“Ahn. No. It’s not the right time.”

“I don’t care.”

“Ahn–”

“Xander and I are engaged.”

 

***

 

“You met Edwin?!”

“Not the sharpest tool in the shed, Watcher.”

“Well, he was recorded as being rather a bit of a disappointment.” Giles frowned. “I suppose your Bermuda incident explains the rather swift departure from his post.”

“Oops.”

Tara giggled, flushing as eyes turned on her. “S-sorry. It’s just… he sounds really…”

“Thick? Dim? A biscuit short of a packet?”

Giles frowned. “I believe one descriptor would do, Thomas.”

“Il était con comme un balai?” Albert added mildly.

Willow giggled. “Did you just say ‘Dumb as a broom’?”

“Oui, sorcière.”

Buffy snorted. “Didn’t you call Alphons that once?”

Mathilde gave her mate a stern look. “And I patched the hole in his shirt for it.”

Xander stared at her. “Vampires sew?”

 

***

 

"I know from where you are now, I've been your friend for some of the most important bits of your lives. The thing is, you haven't been in my life for a really long time. I don’t say that to be mean. It’s just… Elly and I were friends with Charles for fifty years…” Buffy swallowed roughly. Spike took her hand and squeezed it tightly.

Tara rose from her spot on the floor and silently took her other hand. Buffy smiled tearily at the blonde witch.

Thomas drew out a flask from his jacket. “To my illustrious scoundrel of a great-great-grandfather.” He took a sip and passed it around.

“Bit, where the bloody hell did you get that from? And why didn’t you share?”

“Learned from you, Uncle.”

“God, Elly, you’re the worst influence.”

Ellen laughed. “At least Charles was never around when my brother decided to imitate Spike’s cockney accent.”

“That was a long fucking decade.”

 

***

 

“ _You_  were the unspecified female demon leader?!”

“Um, I guess so?”

Giles exhaled explosively. “Good lord.” A sudden thought seemed to strike him then, and his eyes widened dangerously. “Good lord,” he repeated. “That’s why they call you ‘General’.” He turned to the two French vampires. “And you two…”

“Also with the Resistance,” Mathilde confirmed lazily. “Was great fun, no?”

Spike chuckled lowly. “Watcher, don’t forget to breathe.”

Tara’s eyes were incredibly wide. “You killed people?”

Buffy sighed. “More than I can remember sometimes, Tara.”

The room stilled, and the Scoobies looked at her uncertainly.

“I told you,” she said softly. “I’m not your Buffy anymore.”

No one said anything to that.

 

***

 

“An English Slayer?” Giles frowned. “That would have been Aileen Fisher, if memory serves.”

“Do you know how long she lived?”

“Ah… something in the ballpark of two years, I believe.”

Buffy sighed. “Stupid Watcher should’ve taught her to defend her face better.”

“Those are the kicks, B,” Faith said quietly. “But you’re here.”

Buffy looked at her sister Slayer steadily, gratefully. “You’re here, too.”

“Yeah,” she said with some surprise, “I am.”

 

***

 

Willow squealed. “Oh my god, you had _pink hair_?” Her eyes glowed. “Please tell me you took pictures.”

Tara smiled teasingly at her girlfriend. “Is there something I should know, sweetie?”

Willow blushed vividly.

 

***

 

“Think we’ve lost the crowd, Slayer,” Spike said softly. They were curled together on the floor, backs pressed up against the couch. Dawn was firmly passed out behind their heads, snoring slightly.

Buffy looked around the room silently. Anya was contorted oddly on the other end of the couch, Xander asleep with his head in her lap. Giles was sprawled in the chair by the door, glasses hanging limply from one hand and a much-abused pen in the other. An open and very-scribbled upon notebook lay askew on his lap. Willow and Tara had stolen a blanket from the couch and were curled up in the middle of the floor, nestled together. Ellen was curled up into a small ball in her chair, her graying blond hair wisping around her face. Faith was tumbled against the side of Ellen's chair, knees drawn up to her chest to hold her head and arms. Thomas had bunched his jacket into a pillow and was spread out like a starfish by the fireplace. Even the two French vampires were seemingly asleep, Mathilde cradled in Albert’s arms against the wall.

“Yeah, I think we did.”


	28. Old Place and New Order

The phone picked up with a short click.

“Buffy?”

“No, mate.”

There was startled silence, which quickly turned accusatory. “Spike? Why are you calling from Buffy’s number?”

Spike rolled his eyes, and Buffy bit back a giggle. They were standing in the kitchen on Revello Drive, ear-to-ear, with the phone between them.

“Listen. Peaches, what do you remember about 1880?”

Another pause. Then Angel said caustically, “You mean, beside the fact that my child went and sired an incredible pain in my ass excuse for a vampire?”

“Thinking a bit before that, yeah. Do you happen to recollect meeting a Master vamp in London few weeks before? The old bitch invited him to the theatre?”

“Uh… yeah, now that you mention it… He actually looked a lot like…” There was an abrupt silence. Then, “Spike,  _what the fuck were you doing in 1880’s London_?!”

“Long story, Peaches.”

There was a furious silence followed by a strangled gasp. “Oh my god. Buffy! I–”

“Tried to have her for a midnight snack, yeah.”

“ _Where is she_?!”

“What the bloody hell do you mean by that!” Spike growled. “Slayer is right next to me, where she belongs.”

Buffy touched his arm briefly, and Spike rewarded her with a warm smile.

“Where she… Spike, what the hell is going on?”

Spike sighed. “I’m calling to invite you to the ceremony, you berk.”

“Excuse me?”

“Buffy and I are renewing our vows. Figured after a century, might be good. Besides, the Scoobies missed out last time. We're making peace and all that rot.”

There was a brief scrambling silence, like a chair being abruptly shoved back. “There’s something wrong. A spell? I’m coming to Sunnydale.”

Spike outright laughed at him. “Well, that’s kind of the idea, Peaches. You coming, I mean. There’s no spell. Buffy and I have been together for a century. We’ll explain when you get here.” Then Spike set the phone back in the receiver before Angel had a chance to reply.

Buffy shook her head at him. “You had  _way_  too much fun with that, Elly.”

He grinned viciously. “Been wanting to do that for decades.”

“Some things never change.”

His grin faded into a tender smile, blue eyes watching her with a mixture of love and desire that made her want to melt into a puddle on the floor. “Just some, luv.” Then, abruptly, he looked away, but not before she caught the embarrassed hesitancy on his face.

“Elly?”

Spike took a deep breath and pulled something out of his jeans pocket, crushing it into her palm. Buffy stared down, bemused. It was a wrinkled scrap of paper.  _What the huh?_

“Told myself if we made it back, I’d… show it to you.” His voice was incredibly quiet, metered with equal parts uncertainty and determination.

Buffy stared at the paper in her hands, her heart thundering in her chest. It was a single sheet torn from a notebook, and from the state of it, sometime recently.  _The damn vampire has had this memorized for a century._  “Recite it to me?”

Spike eyed her indecisively. “Dunno, luv.”

“I wanted to punch George Evans in the face. At the party. I was about three seconds away from it when Charles stopped me.”

Spike blinked at her, his mouth curling into the smallest hint of a pleased smile. “That so.”

“It is.” Buffy searched his eyes, stepping closer, so they were nearly breathing one another’s air. She glanced down at the paper in her fist. “This poem looks finished, though. And it’s just us. Will you read it to me, William?”

He swallowed roughly, blue eyes roiling with a mix of fear and love and resolve. Finally, he nodded, but said nothing.

Buffy took his hands in hers, eyes lovingly searching his face. “Tell me how it starts,” she commanded softly, her voice imbued with every ounce of gentleness she owned.

“The consuming fire,” Spike said lowly, finally, his voice timbred with hints of his first accent, “ends in naught but a golden mirage.” He gave her a twisted smile and then shook his head, but continued, “Still… it is burning, bleeding, bewitching. It captures, exceptionless, every mote of dust… twisting as wildfire might… and sends all the shadows fleeing. I stand in its tendrils, and know I will turn to ash… But I will die euphoric, for only the chance that I might touch its light.”

By the time his voice touched on the last word, Buffy thought all the blood in her body must’ve pooled to her chest, making a ruckus of it – dampening her lungs, making everything in her tremble.  _Welp, there goes the Buffy Body. Guess I won’t be using those parts anymore._  And she really, really didn’t care.

She opened her mouth to tell him so, but Spike took a deep breath and abruptly looked away, exhaling in a rueful chuckle. “Told you I was an awful poet, luv.”

“You are such an idiot.” Buffy placed a firm hand on his jaw and turned him back to her.  _Can’t you tell what your words did to me, you stupid vampire?_  “It was…” She shook her head, at a loss.  _I could really use some of that blood back in my brain._  “It was incredibly beautiful. I loved it, Spike.”

He gazed at her disbelievingly for a long moment. Finally, he scoffed at her. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, pet.”

“It’s not flattery,” she said fiercely. “It  _is_  beautiful. But…”

Spike’s eyes narrowed, mouth curving up in a knowing, bitter smile. “But?”

Buffy leaned close to his ear, letting her breath hit his skin in all the ways she knew drove him mad. “But it I bet it would be even better if you said it when I’m clenching your cock.”

Her vampire drew in a sharp breath and pulled back to look at her, his eyes dark with lust and shocked delight. “You bloody minx.”

She smiled winsomely at him. “That’s me.”

He laughed then, the dark sound rumbling through his chest as he pulled her close and captured her mouth in a fierce, promising kiss.

 

***

 

Buffy stood in the open doorway of the dining room, taking mental stock of her guests. Giles was sitting at the wooden table a few feet away, reading his notes from the early morning. Ellen and Thomas had retired to the living room, chatting amiably with a newly awake and much bemused Dawn. Buffy heard Dawn’s excited exclamation as Spike joined them.

The French vampires were asleep, or otherwise occupied, in the basement.

Faith had disappeared within the last hour, apparently interested in scoping out the changes in Sunnydale since her last visit.

The Scoobies had all left in late afternoon, as they woke. They said a few words of parting – and provided overly-eager exclamations when told about the renewal of vows – but that had been about it. It was painfully obvious they didn’t know what to say to her. In turn,  _she_  didn’t really know what to say to  _them_. It felt like the space between battles, all temporary quiet and uncertainty. So she let it feel like that.  _We could all use some recovery time._

Silently, she slid into the seat across from Giles and watched him read for a long moment. He seemed engrossed and very serious. “Are you disappointed in what I’ve become, Giles?”

The Watcher looked up and gave her a weary look, before closing the notebook and setting his glasses firmly on the table. “Honestly, Buffy, I can’t seem to sort the many things I feel at this moment.” He looked at her curiously. “There is something I wonder…”

“Yes?”

“If you – this version of you – had to decide between your sister and the world again, would you make the same choice?”

Buffy felt a sharp pang in her breast and something like pity filtered through her. “Giles, you still don’t get it, do you? Leaving aside the fact that Elly and I have just spent over a hundred years watching over a single family…” She paused, shaking her head. No, that wouldn’t do. They had been on vacation, after all. It struck her then. Sometime in the past day – or maybe years – she had accepted that their holiday was over. It didn’t alarm her the way she thought it would. Didn’t threaten to drown her in some sea of slaying misery. Maybe, just maybe, she thought, they’d managed to bring their holiday with them. Or maybe her job and her holiday weren’t as far apart as she’d once thought.

“Buffy?”

Buffy gave him a wry look, biting her lip.  _How do I make him understand?_  “During the war,” she said then, abruptly, “I didn’t kill every person in Paris so that the Nazis would have no people to torment. I killed Nazis.”

Giles frowned and tapped several fingers on the table in a way strangely reminiscent of Spike. “So you’d still jump then?”

“If I had to.” Buffy laughed. “I’d like to think that – if Glory came around now, after everything – I’d have a few more tricks up my sleeve than I did before. But, even if I didn’t… Yes, I’d still jump. Only, not because I felt like it was inevitable. Not because of the deathwish tugging on my sleeve.” She sighed. “Elly told me eons ago… well, I guess it’s only been months here. God, time travel is never going to stop being confusing. Anyway, he told me – that night he told me about the other Slayers – that the only reason I’d lasted so long is because I had friends and family to keep me here. Did I ever tell you that? I honestly can’t remember. Anyway, he was right. He’s still right, just for slightly different reasons. Nowadays, my friends and family remind me of my purpose. What my job is. Who I’m saving. Who I want to continue fighting for. So, yes, I’d still jump. But then I’d fight like mad to get back again.” She tugged at the gold wedding ring on her left hand, smiling faintly.  _I swear. Love, William._  “Spike said once that he’d rip through half of hell to get me home. And I’d do the same now, to get back to him. To continue this life we have – this life we’ve made together.”

Giles regarded her silently for a long moment. “I see,” he said at last.

Buffy raised a brow. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

Giles smiled wryly at her. “Buffy… I’m not disappointed in you. I’m… well, beyond being a bit baffled and – frankly – frightened at what it is that you’ve become, I’m admittedly more than a little… proud.”

Warmth welled up in her, unexpectedly. She swallowed hard and touched his hand. “Thank you.”

They were silent for a long moment, and there was an earsplitting squeal from the living room. “Oh my god _, you’re my brother-in-law now?!”_

Buffy smiled in the direction of the scream. “It appears someone is getting filled in.”

Giles chuckled. “It does appear that way.” His expression turned a bit pinched. “I won’t tell the Council anything for now, but they will – you realize – suspect something is amiss when you don’t seem to age.”

Buffy shrugged. “I’ve got a few more years until I have to worry about that. If I make it that far.”

Giles looked at her with a slightly crooked smile. “If the last century of your life is any indicator, I daresay Spike won’t let anything happen to you.”

Buffy smiled warmly in return. “No, he won’t. And I won’t let anything happen to him.” She paused in thought. They had carefully glossed over Spike’s killings in the retelling of their history to the Scoobies, at Buffy’s vehement insistence.

“They’ll just try to stake you for it, and I’d have to hurt them, Elly,” she had told him fiercely.

“It’s a fucking lie, then.”

“It’s an omittance.” She was quite proud of herself for that word. “And I’m not asking you – or me – to pretend none of that happened. It did. I just don’t care for them to judge you by it.”

“Buffy…”

“William, I want them to know you.  _You_. If we give them every detail, they’ll never give you a chance.”

In the here and now, Buffy sighed and gave Giles a pointed look. “He’s an incredible man, you know.”

He raised a brow. “A man?”

She shrugged. “And a beautiful monster. But you’ve seen a lot of the monster, in the past. That’s all Elly really wanted anyone to see. The man is a bit less guarded these days. I think you’d like him.”

“We shall see.” Giles sighed and put his glasses back on. “I do feel,” he said after a brief pause, “that there is little use for me now.”

“You mean I don’t need a Watcher.”

He gave her a dry look. “To say the least.”

“I probably don’t, at least, not in the training and mentoring sense. But Faith does.” Buffy touched his hand briefly. “She needs that support, Giles. Craves it, even if she pretends not to. And I… well,” she gave him an impish look, “you’re family, you know. By marriage and all that. Not to mention my kind of father. Which – I have to say – is a little weirder these days, seeing as I’m now a lot older than you. Still, I’d like you around.”

Giles sighed deeply, although he didn’t seem displeased. “Faith is going to be quite another headache. I shall have to ponder how to break news of  _her_  presence to the Council.”

“We’ll figure something out.” She rolled her eyes. “Elly and I have done so much planning the last two decades, I really thought we might keel over and die of boredom. But really, what’s a little more?”

Giles chuckled. “Indeed.”

Buffy looked at the Watcher seriously. “I’d like you to give me away this time, you know. For our vows.”

He blinked at her in clear surprise. “You would? I’m sure there are people you are much closer to, these days.”

“That doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

Giles abruptly looked away and started cleaning his glasses again. “It would be my honor.” After a minute, he paused and gave her an odd look, eyes turning wide with some sudden realization. “Oh, good lord. You’re the cursed Delancey lovers.”

Buffy laughed. “So you heard that story.” She shrugged. “It’s just something we cooked up with Julie to explain our obviously-with-the-immortal presence outside the clan when Ellen got married. We didn’t feel safe revealing the real history to a family of Watchers.”

To her surprise, Giles turned beet red. “Yes, quite,” he mumbled.

“Something I should know about?”

He cleared his throat with distinct embarrassment. “I, ah, may have done a spot of research on you both.”

Buffy sat up a little. “Really? We never saw you poking around.”

“At the time, I was told you were both abroad. To my great disappointment. And then I was transferred to the Hellmouth and quite unable to delve further.”

Buffy bit her lip, trying to hide a grin. “Well, Giles, guess what?”

He gave her a very wary look. “What?”

“You can finish your research now.”

He stared at her for a brief moment, then broke into rueful laughter. “Yes, my dear,” he said finally, “I quite suppose I can.”

 

***

 

“Ready, B?”

Faith peeked inside the front door from the porch.

Buffy nodded from the entryway hall, zipping up her jacket. Mathilde, Albert, Thomas, and Spike stood around her.

Dawn was on the staircase, watching them suspiciously. “Where are you going?”

Buffy threw her a conspiratorial look, waggling her brows. “Off to see who wants to be a part of the New World Order, Dawnie.” She glanced at Spike, who was grinning almost ferally, and rolled her eyes. “And Elly’s eager to remind the troublemakers that he’s a Master vampire.”

Thomas laughed. “Should be interesting to see you in action, Uncle.” He smiled thoughtfully. “And to meet the local demon clans.”

Buffy eyed him curiously. “Thinking of sticking around, Bit?”

He shrugged. “You never know. I’ll be done with university in a semester.” He turned to Faith. “Did you find a flat?”

Faith opened the door wider. “Giles is letting me stay with him for a while.” Her face turned a bit shy, a bit amused. “Going to take me under his wing or something, I guess.”

“Be sure to play his records in the middle of the night, as loud as you can stand,” Spike advised. “He loves that.”

Buffy shook her head at the vampire. “It’s a wonder Giles put up with you for as long as he did, that year.”

“I’m hard to get rid of, luv.”

“You can say that again.”

Mathilde laughed at them. “Is the sign of a good mate, yes?”

Buffy snorted. “I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

Spike just looked at her with a smoldering smirk. “Happen to know you’re into lots of things, pet.”

“Hey! Underage child right here,” Dawn said, although she looked far from scandalized.

Spike sighed. “Going to take some getting used to, having a Bit in the house.”

Buffy eyed her sister speculatively. “Oh, if we’re too loud, I’m sure she’ll find her friend’s house…” Buffy paused, frowning. “I don’t actually remember her name anymore.”

“Janice,” Dawn replied helpfully.

“Oh, right. Janice’s house to be a lot more fun than ours.”

Instead of looking exasperated at this, as Buffy expected, Dawn grinned. “You haven’t let me do that in  _forever_ , since Glory has been hanging around.”

Buffy looked up at her in surprise. “Huh. I didn’t, did I? Well, kiddo, sleep-overs are now one hundred percent with the encouraged.”

“And bloody regularly,” Spike said firmly, eyeing Buffy suggestively.

“Ugh!” Dawn rolled her eyes. “Geez, you have to at least give me time to call someone first.”

“Better make it soon, Niblet.”

Thomas grinned at them. “He’s not kidding, Dawn. My family has caught them in some ridiculous places over the years.”

“It’s not our fault Cathleen decided to go into the attic right then!”

“Well, it did sound as if a wild animal was raising all manner of hell up there, Auntie.”

“You can blame Elly for  _that_.”

“Bloody right you can.”

Dawn eyed them with a mixture of disgust, disbelief, and worry. “Right. Calling Janice asap.”

Faith snorted from the doorway. “Are you guys done yet? You’re like some freaky Brady Bunch. C’mon, night’s burning.”

Albert and Mathilde murmured agreement.

Buffy laughed. “Okay, okay.” She looked over at Spike, catching the amusement there that mirrored her own. “Ready, Elly?”

“Always, luv.”

Dawn watched them as they all filed out the door, her brown doe-eyes narrowed. “And you’ll be back, right?”

“We’ll be back.”


End file.
